


Stolen Moments

by tveckling



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bartender Markus, But he'll be fine, Eventual Happy Ending, Exotic dancer Connor, Forced Orgasm, Forcedly drugged, Kidnapping, Limb mutilation, M/M, Major Connor whump, Markus ends up in the hospital, POV Alternating, Rape, Stalking, Starvation, Strippers & Strip Clubs, They work at a nightclub there is alcohol, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-07-01 13:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15775497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: Exotic dancer Connor figured stalkers were an unavoidable part of the business... up until his stole something more than creepy photos. [Currently on hiatus]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't have been written without everyone at discord, ily guys. Especially bee, helig, and kao.

Connor didn't precisely set out to work at a strip club, but his university studies took too much time for regular work and when Elijah had offered a place, Connor, aware of how others found him attractive, had shrugged and accepted. He had never had much interest in the sexual aspects of life so he had no problems letting people ogle his body if that gave him the income he needed. He had been surprised at how much he ended up enjoying the work, though. The near deafening music made awkward conversations few, he could get in at least a few light workouts every shift, and it never hurt to have people captivated by your every move, even for Connor. Plus, like Elijah had promised, the money was more than good.

Six months later saw him still working four to five nights a week, fully comfortable with his life. There were only the occasional customers who tried to take things too far—he could handle them himself, he had explained to a perplexed Luther, calmly holding the latest drunk with his arm twisted behind his back—his coworkers were pleasant and friendly, his studies went on without a hitch, and he had no problems paying rent. He liked it. 

Then the new bartender got hired, and Connor was  _ conflicted _ . Markus was one of the most handsome men he had ever seen, but more than that there was something about him, his kindness and charisma and genuine interest, that drew Connor to him like a moth to a flame. He had never been one to let his body take control, but since Markus came into his life Connor spends an embarrassing amount of time masturbating, moaning into his hand, thoughts of Markus in his head, Markus' smile, Markus' intense eyes as he listens to Connor explaining something, Markus' fingers brushing against his as he pushes over a non-alcoholic drink after a busy night with a wink. Connor is so in love it's ridiculous.

 

-

 

Connor hopes that his infatuation isn't visible, because you're not supposed to fall in love at work, especially not at this kind of work. He can only hope the reason for Elijah’s smug grins is that he sees things no one else seems to. If anyone else were to figure out he likes Markus, if  _ Markus _ were to figure it out- 

Markus is straight, Connor knows that. He has seen him with his girlfriend, that amazingly beautiful woman who refused to take even one step into the club. He saw them kissing once, several months earlier when he was walking from his car, and he almost ran back to hide, almost called in pretending to be sick. So he knows Markus is straight, he knows Markus is taken. If only knowing that could stop him from hanging on to every word Markus says, every look Markus sends his way, every smile.

Maybe Elijah is right for laughing at him. He really is pathetic.

“Isn't human nature remarkable? Even a logical brain like yours can be disturbed by love,” Elijah muses one night as he lazes around backstage, watching Connor clean himself after a performance. “I've seen your looks. Your level of energy during a performance can actually be changed depending on whether Markus notices you, whether or not he smiles at you, if he is flirting with a customer or not. It's  _ fascinating _ .”

“If you are intrigued by things at such a level maybe you have chosen the wrong area of study,” Connor drawls, all too used to Elijah. No matter how badly he wishes he wasn't. No matter how badly he wishes he could refute what Elijah says. 

Elijah puts a finger under Connor’s chin and lightly presses his face up, smiles down at him with an expression that makes Connor want to roll his eyes. “There is one obvious solution to this problem of yours. You need to be fucked, long and good, something that will push all thoughts of our lovely bartender out of your too pretty head.”

“So you've said,” Connor says and finally does roll his eyes, waving away Elijah's hand. 

“You know my door is always open for you, day or night. I'd be more than happy to help.”

“Go away, Elijah. I'm sure you have work to do.” But even through his exasperation Connor finds himself smiling as Elijah saunters off.

He's still smiling when Elijah opens the door, checking himself in the mirror to see if he needs to fix any of his makeup. He barely hears the noise Elijah makes, but he notices Elijah walking back to him, expression grim. The smile falls off his face, the pleasant feeling turns into nausea as he sees the yellow envelope in Elijah's hands. 

“Is that-”

“I'm calling Luther,” Elijah says and lays down the seemingly innocent envelope on the table. Connor feels sick looking at it. “I'll have him and the others scan the security films, see if they can find him.”

Connor takes a breath and reaches for the envelope, ignoring the way his hand wants to shake. Elijah stops him before he reaches it.

“I think it's better if I open it.”

Connor frowns and shakes his hand off. He doesn't need to be coddled. No matter how badly he wants to tremble when he rips the top open.

There's a letter inside, some photos. Nothing more, not this time, but that doesn't make it better. The pictures are of him, yawning as he walks to his car, in a bookstore with his arms full, taking notes at a lecture, stretching in a window of his apartment, dancing at the club. The last one makes Connor lose control of his hand and it starts shaking. His head is thrown back, his eyes are closed, and he has his mouth half open, looking as though he lost himself in passion. That picture is sticky. 

All of the pictures have things written on the backside: notes about how beautiful he looked, how the sender wanted to help him carry his books, or how amazed he was at Connor's diligence. Only the one with him dancing is without a written note. But he knows when it was taken. He recognizes the outfit—it’s the same one he’s currently wearing, after all.

He only skims the letter, knowing more or less what it will say. Confessions of love, notices of when the writer had seen him and what he had felt, things the writer wanted to do to him, fantasies about when they would finally be together and the life they would have. 

Connor lets Elijah take the things from him, hides his face in his arms and works on stopping his shivering while Elijah reads.

“That sick bastard has written the dates even,” Elijah mutters. Connor can hear the disgust, the fury in his voice. “This one is from two weeks ago. When was the last time you got an envelope?”

“58 days ago. Almost two months,” Connor murmurs. He's so tired all of sudden. Every time, every single time, he gets just enough time to relax, to hope that it's over, that the person has moved on - and then there's another envelope, another pile of evidence of how he is still watched, wherever he goes. It's been going on for almost a year, 329 days since he got the first one. He doesn't know how much longer he can stand it, never knowing what might happen next.

“Fuck. Luther, finally! He was here again. Get someone to comb through the films, ask everyone who has worked tonight, ask any regular who is still here.  _ Someone _ must have seen the bastard.”

“You know you won't find him.” Connor pushes himself up from the table, looks at Elijah with dead eyes. He's so, so tired, and Elijah's fury makes him even more so. Luther is already talking into his earpiece, giving orders to the rest of the security team. Connor doesn't look at him. “You've tried before, and didn't find anything then either. He has some sort of EMP device, we already know that, the tapes are always unusable. All the other times no one has seen anybody seeming to be carrying an envelope, and every day we get clients who are weird and stand out. This is just a waste of time and effort.”

Elijah glares at him while Luther, finished giving orders, nervously looks between the two of them. “How can you be so ready to give up? This bastard is after you.”

“There's no reason to try the same thing that we have already confirmed does not work,” Connor hisses back, his hands tightening. “It's a waste of time and resources.”

“Then what would you have me do? Sit on my hands and do nothing, wait for him to make the next move? What if he tries to actually do something to you?”

“I don't know! I- I know! I think about it all the damn time, wondering if he's there. Wherever I go, it's always,  _ always _ in the back of my mind. I-” Connor's voice breaks and he turns, punches the wall as hard as he can. He can allow himself to cry over the bruised bones in his hand.

He hears Elijah dismiss Luther, sending him to go question people. Connor focuses on breathing, holding his shaking hand, focuses on the physical pain. He can handle that. He caused it himself, he can deal with it. 

With a sigh Elijah opens the mini freezer they have, and Connor only lets out a quiet hiss when he feels the bag of ice cover his hand. He lets Elijah pull him close, leans his head against Elijah's shoulder even though it's killer for his neck, focuses on just breathing.

“Go get dressed,” Elijah says eventually, patting Connor's butt, getting in a quick squeeze before Connor slaps his hand away. He looks utterly innocent, inasmuch as Elijah is capable of. “You're taking the rest of the night off.”

“What? But, Elijah-”

“I'm also taking the rest of tonight off, by the way. You're inviting me graciously back to your place, and I'll finally teach you that classics are the best—we'll be watching Casablanca, and you will be floored by how you can possibly have avoided watching it for so long—and then we'll drink until we fall into stupor, and if you play your cards right you might even get me in your bed.”

Connor chortles, rubbing his face, and shakes his head. “I can only imagine such a dream.”

“Well, there is always the chance of making it more than a dream, depending on how you play your cards, pretty boy.” Elijah leers at him and reaches out to pat his ass again. Connor manages to dance away, smiling for real now. 

“What will Chloe say?”

“She will tell me that I'm awful for keeping you to myself. So I'll propose a threesome next time, to which she will approve, and then she will tell me to send pictures.”

“Of course she will.” Connor shakes his head again, moves the ice from his hand with a wince. 

“Go on, now. I don't have all night. Unless, of course, you want to try your luck looking like that. It might increase your chances of getting to sleep with me, I admit.”

Connor laughs, tossing the bag of ice at Elijah who barely catches it before it hits his face. “I'm going, I'm going.”

Elijah keeps smiling until he is out of the room, going to his locker. Then the expression falls, slides off his face like it was never there, and he takes out his phone with a scowl. He has already talked it over with Chloe, and they both agreed that the next time anything happened they would involve professionals. Elijah is sick of seeing that look in Connor's eyes, sick of the knowledge that his friend is being tormented. He won't allow it any longer.

 

-

 

Elijah takes him off the schedule the rest of the week, despite Connor's protests about being able to work. Chloe comes over in the morning, helps Elijah—who is miraculously not hangover, unlike Connor who hates everything and everyone and especially Elijah—pack a bag of Connor's things, then they take him back to their place. Chloe, the wonderful angel she is, gives him painkillers and tea and lets him sleep in their guest room until the afternoon, making sure to keep Elijah away. Then the two of them do their regular routine of keeping Connor busy, making him forget about the stalker. 

He loves them, both of them, he really does, but at the end of the week he is dying to get home to his own, quiet, peaceful apartment. He does not forget to draw every thick curtain, however, his hands only trembling a little as he does. Elijah has the latest envelope and its contents, and Connor is happy to let him have it, just like he took all the others. Makes it easier for him to pretend it didn't happen. 

When he falls into bed he takes up his phone, looking at his favorite picture—a selfie he took a few weeks earlier with Markus, both of them laughing and smiling, Markus with his arm around Connor's shoulders. He closes his eyes and imagines Markus smiling at him, caressing his face, kissing him and holding him close. He'll finally be back at work the next evening, where he will see Markus again.

_ Markus _ . 

He drives all unpleasant thoughts from Connor's head far easier than Elijah, and for a while there is absolutely nothing wrong.   



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Dina at the discord server I got an amazing amount if motivation and finished the latest chapter.... way, way earlier than expected. So here is chapter 2, nine days earlier than planned.

Life goes on, as it does every time. Markus helps, as does Elijah, as does the simplicity of routine, work and studies. He has no time to dwell on whether someone is watching him when he is cramming for a ruthless exam, he has no focus left to wonder if anyone is taking pictures when he is working the pole. And Markus, over by the bar, looking up and smiling at him every so often, giving him energy each time.

It's always a painful admission to realize that Elijah is right. He does his best to not actually tell him. 

“I don't understand how you can move like that every single night,” Markus says with a bewildered shake of his head when Connor leans up against the bar disk. 

Connor chuckles and shrugs, ignoring his urge to look around for Elijah. “It's a good workout, and it feels good to move after a long day of sitting stuck in front of a laptop.”

Markus grins and places a glass in front of Connor. “I can only offer sympathy drinks. I am so happy those days of my life are behind me.”

Connor takes a sip of the drink and closes his eyes, inadvertently letting out a soft moan. He doesn't notice the way Markus' eye twitches, and Markus only grins at him when he opens his eyes again. “You have ruined me, you know that? I have tried other drinks after you started here, but nothing is even close to as good as what you come up with. And there's not even any alcohol in it! Will you ever tell me how you do it?”

“It's a secret of the trade,” Markus says with a wink, then he leans closer surreptitiously. “But if you think of a good enough bribe, then maybe I can make an exception.”

_ Would a blowjob be good enough? _ a voice sounding too much like Elijah's says in his head, and Connor quickly raises the glass, hoping it will cover his furious blush.

He has a few minutes before his next scheduled dance with one of his regulars, and he spends it all too happily with Markus, watching him work, chatting when he doesn't. “How is that piece you talked about coming along? Do you have a picture?”

Markus shakes his head. “No. It's done, but I'm not sure about it, you know? And taking pictures of art- it's not the same as seeing it in real life, with your own eyes. You need to study it, to see the colors, the shapes, as they truly are. There is a certain feeling you get when you stand in front of art that you simply can't convey through a phone.”

Connor nods. “I see.” He doesn't, not really, but he will never admit that to Markus, who is so passionate about all types of art. 

Markus chews on his lip for a moment, then he looks up at Connor. The light catches his eyes, makes him look ethereal, unreal, and Connor thinks that if he died right then he wouldn't mind. “Would you like to come over, maybe, and have a look at it? I mean, since you have such an interest, and it really is much better to see it in person, and I would love to hear your opi-”

“Sorry to interrupt, boys, but Connor, your dance is here.” Kara really does look sorry, but Connor can see Perkins behind her, a while away. He nods when their eyes meet, polite as always. 

“Don't worry about it, Kara,” Connor says with a smile as he pushes away from the disk. He hesitates for a moment, then glances at Markus, feeling his heart beat like it's trying to get out of his chest. “I'll happily go see your painting. We can talk about when later.”

“Okay.” If Markus' usual smiles were bright this one was like looking directly into the sun. It was all he could think of the following hour, as he danced, as he listened to Perkins talk, as he himself offered advice and understanding and then danced again. 

“You seem unusually happy today,” Perkins says with a rare smile afterwards, handing Connor a thick wad of bills. “It suits you.”

He feels like he is walking on clouds as he walks back to the dressing room later in the early hours of the day. Perkins hadn't been the only of his customers noticing his mood, and apparently they had all enjoyed it. He has gotten bonuses from all of them, almost four hundred dollars more than usual. Chris, who Connor gets well along with, had even teased him about it, chuckling and making guesses about who might have made Connor so happy. It killed him when one of his guesses was Markus, and it killed him even harder when Chris, noticing his reaction, started cooing. 

Connor liked him, but sometimes he wanted to throttle him.

There's a yellow envelope lying neatly on his chair. 

Connor stops breathing when he sees it, the money Chris left him falling from his limp fingers. There's no one else in the room, not right now, but he can swear he's being watched. He's frozen, trembling, can't make himself look around, can't make himself take his eyes off the innocent item. 

He does eventually move, evidently, because suddenly he's standing with the envelope open in his hand, staring down at a single lined paper. ' _ You are so beautiful when you smile, but you need to be careful around other men. They want to do horrible things to you. Only I can truly make your smile stick, we both know that. Only I deserve to see it. Stay away from him, Connor. _ '

The note drops from his shaking fingers as he stumbles over to the wall, tries to get any purchase before sliding down it heavily. He holds himself tight, tries to remember how to breathe.

 

-

 

He doesn't tell anyone about the note, of course he doesn't. He can't. Elijah would have a fit - the man has never gotten inside the dressing area before, they didn't think he could. He left his note on  _ Connor's chair _ . He knew which one was  _ his _ . Connor doesn't know what Elijah would do, only that it surely wouldn't work. Nothing they have done so far has had any effect. 

He pretends it never happened, continues to talk to Markus with a smile, because if he ever stops taking with Markus he will drown. They decide that after their shift on Friday Connor will drive them to Markus' apartment—Markus only has a bicycle, Connor is surprised to discover, but it fits him. He takes local transport when he doesn't bike, tries to mind the nature as much as he can. Connor only loves him more for it. 

Every day is a drain on Connor's nerves; he keeps expecting to see a yellow envelope whenever he turns around, keeps seeing flashes of yellow in the corner of his eyes. He works harder, throws himself deeper into dancing, into the performances, into how to perfect his smile and how to pose his body and his arms and legs and back, and if he concentrates hard enough he doesn't think of who might be watching. He concentrates on Markus, on Markus' eyes.

 

-

 

On Friday evening his body and mind is nothing but a loud hum. He keeps thinking about Markus, how he will soon be going to Markus' apartment, he will be inside of Markus' apartment, he will be inside Markus'  _ home _ . He doesn't think about the warning, doesn't see the words flash by in his mind, he doesn't. He keeps glancing at Markus, who for some reason is always already looking at him. It drives Connor on, gives him endless energy, makes his mind empty of anything but Markus. 

Markus, who smiles so beautifully as he places a glass in front of Connor. “You did great up there,” he says, and Connor smiles, he smiles, he couldn't not smile even if he tried. 

“Thank you.”

A tap on his shoulder makes Connor turn around, and it's one of the young men, barely men, that he saw earlier. He looks awkward but not as much as his friend who stands a few feet back, looking like he wants to sink into the floor. 

“Sorry to, uh, interrupt, really. My friend really liked your, uh, moves, and he wonders if you could, you know, maybe, uh-”

It's adorable, these young ones on their first trips to the club. Connor is in a good mood, takes the glass with a wink at Markus. “Does he want an extra dance, maybe?”

“Uh- yeah, that's-” Now this boy is blushing as hard as his friend, and it might get a little bit to Connor's head. They're too cute, the two of them. He smiles and notices how the boy gets even redder. 

“I'm free right now. All the rooms are booked but if it doesn't bother you we can just use one of the chairs out here. It's 20$ for one dance, is that okay?” Connor asks as he walks the boy over to his friend, receiving a quick nod. He smiles. First timers have always been his favorites. “Why don't you follow me?”

Like ducklings they do, following as Connor leads them to one of the few tables with free chairs. It's a Friday night, of course the club is full. He gestures for them to sit down, puts down his glass on the table, and smiles at them. “Now, which one of you wanted a dance?”

The ginger who no longer looks quite like he wants to sink through the floor raise his hand, and Connor nods. He walks slowly, saunter around the chair, feeling both of the boys stare at him. “A quick reminder, because it can be forgotten so easily,” he says as he leans down, breathing into the boy's ear. The other one is definitely looking jealous now. “The rule against touching is very strict. If you think you can't control your hands, I would suggest you put them under your legs. We wouldn't want to have to stop before we're done, right?”

“Mhmmm!” the ginger manages to say, quickly shuffling his hands beneath his thighs.

“Good boy,” Connor murmurs as he strokes a hand along the boy's neck, and, yes, that was definitely a moan. He valiantly holds back his laughter and looks up, sees Markus, sees the intensity in Markus' eyes, and suddenly his body is so much warmer. 

He begins moving his body to the song playing, moves his hips, his hands, his chest, and he steps back in front of the chair. The jeans he's currently wearing are one of his favorites, and he knows how they cling to his ass. It doesn't surprise him when he turns around after a minute to see the boy's eyes wide, but it is definitely amusing to see them get even wider as he kicks off his shoes and quickly slips out of the pants. He keeps moving his hips, his body, dancing to the beat, as he lowers himself over the boy's lap, not yet actually touching. There is a very noticeable bulge in the boy's pants.

He glances up, just a moment, and his breath gets stuck in his chest. Markus is still looking, with an expression that Connor can't decipher. Taking a steadying breath Connor closes his eyes and falls into the music, shimmying and moving to the beat, making more of a performance of a simple lap dance than he normally does. This is not talking, except with bodies, and Connor is  _ good _ at that. 

When he finally lowers himself into the boys lap, no air between them, both the boy and his friend make identical whimpers. Connor smiles, puts a hand on the boy's shoulder and  _ moves _ , grinds his body down, lifts it again, tosses his head back and watches through narrow slits as he trails one hand down his chest, puts it on the boy's. There is always a layer of clothes between, no skin touching skin, but the dance mimics sex, gives the feeling of passion, of desire, teasing. 

Connor bends forward, hand on the boy's shoulder, his breath making the hair on the boy's neck stand up - then he pulls back completely, the music fading out. 

He smiles and pats the boy's cheek before standing up. “I hope you enjoyed the song.” He pretends he doesn't notice the wetness in the boy's pants. He's not cruel, after all.

“Oh, um, I- thanks?”

Connor chuckles, quickly putting on his pants and shoes again before taking his glass and drinking. The coolness of the liquid does wonders to his heated body and he has drunk almost half before he realizes it, before he even registers a taste. It took long enough to give the boys—maybe he shouldn't call them boys, they look to be at least twenty, but he can't help it, not with the way they stammer and blush—time to get their minds out back from wherever it had ended. The ginger clears his throat, his face redder than his hair, as he pulls out his wallet and hands Connor a fifty note. 

“It was, uh, wow, thank you. Um, keep- keep the change?”

Connor smiles easily, simply putting the note in his briefers, trying not to chuckle at how both boys follows the movement. “Thank you. If you ever want more you can always ask for me by name, should you wish to. Either any of our bartenders or our security can help you.”

The ginger nods quickly, but his friend raises a hand—like he’s in school.  _ Adorable _ . “What is your name?”

“Connor.” With a wink and a sip of his drink Connor walks back towards the bar, a little jump in each step. Markus is busy with a customer, but as soon as he can he goes over to Connor, quirks an eyebrows when he sees Connor play with the fifty note. 

“How much did you take for that dance?”

“Hmm, twenty bucks, but the sweet boy gave me fifty.”

Markus snorts and shakes his head. “And you didn't tell them anything about how it would normally cost a hundred?”

“We want them to come back, don't we?” Connor beams and finishes the last of his drink. “Besides, first time discount.”

Markus laughs and shakes his head. “I can only imagine they're hooked now, after  _ that _ performance. Perhaps enough to not cry when they find out about the real price range here.”

Connor winks and pushes away from the bar. “Well, I'm in a good mood, so I'm going to go get ready early. It's only half an hour left anyway, and I've made enough for tonight.”

Markus looks out over the open area of the club, nods with a thoughtful look. “Do that. I'll probably have to stay the whole time, but I take much less time to get ready then you do, so it should even out.“

“That's because you don't work half as hard as I do,” Connor said with a snort. “It does take much less time when you haven't broken even one sweat. If you had my shift you would be a mess at the end.”

“Oh, yeah? I would think that you wouldn't make it one whole shift in my position,” Markus dares with a grin, and Connor looks back at him with narrowed eyes. He doesn't like it when people tell him he can't do things. Even if, as it may happen, it is concerning things he has never done before.

“We'll have to see if that's true, don't we?”

“Not tonight or tomorrow, but you can bet on it.”

Connor studies Markus for a second, but then someone calls for a drink and Markus turns away with a shrug. “Go get showered, I'll see you.”

“Don't drop anything.” Connor manages to keep the smile off his face until he is certain Markus can't see it.

 

-

 

Connor yawns, large enough to make his whole face ache. He isn't normally this tired after a shift, but it has been a long week—and he has spent the whole day so excited about going to Markus' place that he isn't surprised his body is ready to clock out when he gets a chance to relax. But it was annoying, he kept yawning in the shower, almost swallowing a mouthful of water by accident. Kara had looked at him and told him to go home already as he kissed her cheek. But he isn't going home, he wanted to say, his whole mind vibrating where his body is dead tired. He's going home to  _ Markus. _

He rubs his face, trying to shake away the sleepiness when he hears footsteps. Looking up his heart might have stopped for a moment, because Markus is there, and he is smiling, and Connor might have never actually seen him clearly out of the work uniform. He is  _ breathtaking _ . Though, Connor thinks as he tries to rub away the blush he's sure shines on his face, that might be his tiredness speaking. 

“Hey, I hope I didn't keep you waiting?”

Connor shakes his head, opens his mouth to answer, but instead yet another yawn rips free. He blinks quickly, not really sure when Markus had gotten so close. 

“Con? You're looking quite out of it. Sure you don't need to go home and get some rest instead?”

Connor scowls, shakes his head but quickly stops when it makes the whole world go dizzy. “No, it's fine. I'm fine, I promise. We said to go now, and I don't like to change plans.”

“Right, right, you like your routines.”

Connor narrows his eyes at Markus, but the smile doesn't look mocking or teasing. It's just Markus' normal, kind smile. 

“Yes, I do. I admit that I might be a bit tired, but not enough that I can't go look at art.”

Markus chuckles, gives a crooked grin. “Uh, well, if you insist. But, maybe when we're done you will be really tired, so... how do you feel- what do you say about staying over? I don't have a guest room, uh, but I have a very comfortable couch? I've gotten many compliments from people sleeping over in the past, I mean, if you have a problem I can take the couch and you the bed, because it's really comfortable and it wouldn't be a problem to do that, not at all-”

“Okay.”

Markus stops talking, just stares at Connor who is finding his keys very interesting. “Okay?”

“Yeah, it sounds- I'll sleep over, it's the most sensible action, since I do feel kind of tired. I can use the couch, I'm sure.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Okay.”

The two of them stand in silence for a few moments, then Connor clears his throat. Markus has a girlfriend, he reminds himself. He might be very kind and friendly, but he has a girlfriend. He's straight. Connor needs to stop looking into what he says, needs to stop putting things in his words that he doesn't mean. Needs to stop hoping for something that will never happen. 

“Right, uh, shall we? My car is- is just over here. Right, uh, here.”

Markus flashes that smile of his, making Connor's knees weak, and nods. “Lead the way.”

Connor nods, carefully, because every movement of his head seems to make the world spin now. If it continues like this he knows he shouldn't get behind the wheel, he knows that. Maybe he can ask if Markus knows how to drive? Just because he doesn't have a car doesn't mean he doesn't know how to drive one, after all. 

He opens his mouth to ask as he takes a step, but the words turn into a pained grunt as his leg gives way and he falls to the ground. 

“Connor! What happened, are you okay?”

Connor shakes his head, closes his eyes at the influx of vertigo, clings to Markus' arm. “I'm-”

He doesn't understand what's happening, this isn't like usual tiredness. His body can't support him, he's having trouble finding his words, he's so dizzy. 

_ Something is wrong. _

“Elijah,” he manages to say, tries to push away the dizziness so he can open his eyes. “Call-  _ Markus _ !”

Markus barely get the chance to turn around. A metal bat hits his shoulder with a sickening sound and he drops to the ground with an aborted scream, his other hand clutching the now limp arm. There's a curse and Markus looks up, his hand moving up to protect himself, protect his head, but it does nothing to stop the kick. His face takes the full brunt of the kick, and he flies to his back, his head slamming into the concrete, his eyes closed.

Connor reaches for him, but his body is so hard to control, all he manages when he tries is falling on the ground. Still he reaches out a shaking hand, trying to get to Markus, trying to touch his hand.

A person comes between them, blocking Connor from touching Markus. “I warned you to stay away from him, Connor, didn't I?”

There's a sick feeling in his stomach. Connor wants to cry. He fucked up, he fucked up, he should have listened to Elijah, he should have done  _ something. _ Now, because he didn't, Markus is lying on the ground, blood slowly pooling under his head. 

He doesn't dare look up, can't make himself look away from Markus. 

“You know it's rude to ignore people when they talk to you, don't you, Connor? I know you do. I know that you are always polite, that politeness is very important to you. That's why I started sending those letters, see? But those people you hang around, they- I know it's not your fault, I know that they always made sure to stand between us.” The man take a step forward, crouches by Connor's head. Connor is so scared, more terrified than he has ever been before. But even in spite of that fear he's feeling more and more tired, feeling his eyes get heavier and heavier. “I've been patient, planning for when I could take you away from all of this. It's- it's a bit too early, I'm not as prepared as I wanted to be, but I couldn't let this man get his hands on you, you understand that, right? Oh, Connor.”

Connor flinches as the man reaches out a hand, stroking his face. He's still looking at Markus, forces his eyes to remain open, to never leave Markus with his sight. 

“You're- your skin is so soft, just like I knew it was. Oh. God, you are so  _ beautiful _ , Connor, so beautiful. I'll treasure you, I'll tell you every single day. I love you so much, you know? Yes, of course you do, you've read my letters, you know I love you, yes, yes. And I'll take you away, and we'll be together for real... I just need to take care of- him.”

Connor can't breathe, his eyes tearing up as the man stands up and walks over to Markus. No. Nononononono. He flinches as the man pulls back his foot and brings it forward with full force, kicking Markus' stomach. There's an agonized whine, and it takes a moment before Connor realizes it comes from him. 

When the man lifts his foot again Connor cries, desperation and fear and  _ Markus _ giving him strength to push himself forward. “No! Don't, please!”

The man immediately crouches down to take his face in his hands, and Connor doesn't realize he's crying before the man wipes at his cheeks. “No, shh, shh, it's okay, don't cry, I hate to see you cry.”

“Please,” Connor sobs, and it's all he can say, all he can do, but the man nods. 

“Okay, it's okay. I'll take you away now, don't worry. We'll go right now. Just sleep, and when you wake up you'll be at home, and we'll be together, and I'll take care of you. Sleep.”

Connor shakes but he can't stop the man from putting a hand over his eyes, from putting him into darkness. He wants to cry, he wants to reach for Markus, wants to call Elijah. But he only hears the voice in his ear, telling him to let go, sleep. He can't resist.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapters are supposed to be updated on Sundays. Apparently I am just, uh... not that good at actually sticking to that schedule? xD At least this time I made it 5 days before uploading a new chapter pfffft. Hope you're happy ;)   
> As always, biggest thanks to the nasties, and helig in particular for making sure there's no obvious grammar/spelling faults. Ilysm.

There goes not one day at work without a customer mistaking Kara for one of the dancers, even with her security tag clearly visible. Luther remembers how he used to be nervous for her, worried that someone might try to force themselves on her. It was a long time since he stopped feeling like that—now he just watches in amusement when Kara turns around to give the offender a warning with that sweet smile of hers. If the guy still persists she will make good of her warning; Luther has seen it happen. He loves watching it. 

Jerry, one of the bartenders, chuckles, making Luther jump. “You look at her like you two haven't been married for two years. I have never seen anyone so adorably in love.”

“Uh, well.” Luther clears his throat, embarrassed to have been caught admiring Kara, trying to think of something that isn't his staring. “I don't agree, Connor and Markus are much worse.”

Traci, one of the dancers who passes by right then, stops with a grin. “Did I hear gossiping about my favorite losers in love? Did you know that they went home together today?”

“Wait what?” Luther stares as Jerry nods. 

“It's true, Markus wouldn't stop looking at the time so I told him to get out. Believe it or not, he actually managed to invite Connor to his place. To show him his 'art.'”

Traci laughs while Luther shakes his head. “You know that if that's what Markus said then that's exactly what he meant. He seems to be so smooth and suave, but when it comes to Connor he has no idea what he's doing.”

“And Connor would never make a move too,” Traci says with a roll of her eyes. “They're impossible, the two of them. Like two teenage virgins. Sometimes I want to just shove them in a closet together, and keep the door locked until they have at least kissed.”

“I don't think that would work,” Jerry says, his cheerful smile full of mischief. “The whole time they would be so worried about each other, making sure that they're okay, try to take as little space as possible. Have you seen them? When they accidentally touch each other they start blushing like they're on their first date. It's adorable.”

“And nauseating.” Traci rolled her eyes again. “I just want them to get over it and fuck each other already. It was cute the first month, now it just makes me annoyed.”

“Don't be mad because you miscalculated how long it would take for them to admit their feelings for each other,” Luther says. 

“I lost good money on that, okay? Because those two are deeper in denial than I could ever have imagined. Damn that betting pool, and damn Kamski for setting it up.”

Both Luther and Jerry laugh at her disgruntled face. True, Luther has also lost money in the pool, but he enjoys watching them dance around each other. It reminds him of when he first met Kara, and how nervous he was around her. Thankfully she wasn't as hesitant to make a move.

“Do you have any ideas how many bets are left?”

Luther purses his lips as he thinks. “Last Elijah talked about it I think there was about-”

A blood curdling scream stops his thinking, and he immediately looks around, trying to find the source of the screaming. The personnel entrance. He sets off immediately, hand going to the stun gun in his belt, just in case. In the perimeter of his eyes he sees Kara rushing in the same direction, her eyes wide but face set. 

Luther is first, ripping the door open and jumping down the small staircase. There are less than a handful of cars left, most employees either gone or using other forms of transportation, and he quickly spots a couple of figures on the ground, one bent over the over. As he runs across the parking lot, Kara following tight on his heels, he sees it's Amelia, Traci's fiancée and another dancer, sobbing over a still body. 

“Amelia? Are you alright?”

Amelia jerks her head up at his voice, crying even harder when she sees him. “L-Luther. It's- I saw him, he was like this, I don't know what to do.”

Luther comes to a stop next to Amelia, then feels something in his chest break as he sees who she's crying on top of.  _ Markus _ . “Kara, call 911,” Luther says with a tight voice. “Get an ambulance here, quick.”

Kara slaps her hand over her mouth as she stops next to him, and though he isn't looking at her he knows that her eyes are tearing up. Still, she's strong, too strong to let the shock and horror stop her for more than a few seconds. By the time Luther is on his knees next to Amelia Kara has her phone out and is calling the emergency number. 

“I came out here to get the car ready, and I saw him, but I didn't know it was him at first,” Amelia says between sobs. “I thought, I was so sure he had gone home with Con already. But I got closer and I saw-”

Luther nods as Amelia's crying gets worse, stops her from speaking. He looks down at Markus, tries to distance himself from the dread he's feeling. He knows first aid, but he doesn't know if that will be of any use here. 

“Ames?  _ Ames _ , what's going on?”

Amelia turned around at the sound of Traci's voice, standing up and running into the arms of her love, crying too hard to say a word. 

Luther reaches out a hand and carefully searches for a pulse, some sign that Markus is still alive. There is a pulse, though it took him awhile to find. He's alive, he's still alive.

 

-

 

Elijah has had Friday off, spending it with Chloe. When he gets the call it's 3:13 Saturday morning. At first he doesn't really understand who is calling him or why, but when Luther tells him Kara is on the way with Markus to the hospital the tiredness disappears. He shoots out of bed, tells Luther to stay where he is, Elijah will be there soon. 

He grabs pants and a sweatshirt, puts on his shoes, hails a cab and tells the driver to get to the address as fast as possible, don't care about the speed limits. He's cold from top to bottom, a calm and devastating assurance about what has happened. He knew it would come, sooner or later something would happen. Telling himself so doesn't make the weight in his stomach go away. 

He lets the call go on until a groggy, pissed off voice answers with a curse. “Gav, it's me. The thing I talked with you about, it's happened. I need you, now, at the club.”

There is silence, then a sigh. “I'll be there.” Then the call is ended, and Elijah can only stare out the window, trying desperately not to think.

 

-

 

It's 3:24 when Elijah is dropped of at the club, giving the taxi driver a wad of bills without even checking the amount as he gets out. He doesn't care how much he overpaid, he only cares about finding out what happened, he only cares about Connor. 

Connor and Markus were supposed to have left together. 

Luther didn't say anything about Connor. 

Luther waits for him at the sidewalk, steps right next to him as Elijah walks into the personnel parking lot. “Amelia found Markus unconscious. The emts said he had been assaulted, blunt force trauma to the head and shoulder, and possibly more. I sent Kara with them to keep us updated on what happens in the hospital. Traci and Jerry are comforting Amelia inside the club, and I sent Andy to get the surveillance footage.”

Elijah barely recognizes his own voice when he hears it. “What about Connor?”

Luther freezes for a moment, and Elijah wants to curse and laugh and cry. Of course Luther had forgotten, he had been so busy with everything else. “I don't- no one... has seen him... oh  _ god _ , he was supposed to-”

“Supposed to go home with Markus tonight,” Elijah finishes. He stops, looks around. There's the blood, there's Connor's car next to it. “His car is here.”

“God.” Luther is shaking his head, eyes wide as realization hits him, long after it had hit Elijah. He knows about Connor's stalker, just as well as Elijah. “No one saw any trace of him. I didn't even think- I was so focused on Markus, I didn't-”

Elijah doesn't say anything, only looks around. He knows that if he opened his mouth right now he would only spit vitriol and accusations, and Luther doesn't deserve that. He doesn't know what he's looking for, doesn't actually know what he should do, but he has to try and distract his mind from all the memories of all those envelopes, the letters and photos, the small trinkets, that one lock of hair that turned out to be Connor's own. Connor only lets Chloe cut his hair now, so he can watch as she burns the rests. 

He steps up to the half-dried pool of blood, stares down at it with empty eyes, remembers that photo among the last batch that had been covered in come. 

Quickly he looks away, forcing back his nausea. He should have done more to protect Connor, should have acted far sooner, should have forced him to move in with him and Chloe, or  _ something _ . Now he has a half-dead employee and a missing friend. All because he had  _ waited _ .

“Should we maybe,” Luther starts carefully, “call the police? This is- this is not good, Elijah. This is more than we can handle.”

“The police are on their way,” Elijah says tonelessly. “We just need to wait.”

“Oh. Good.”

Together they stand in silence for a few minutes, until a car's headlights turn in on the parking lot. Elijah looks at the time. It's 3:31. 

“Eli,” the man getting out of the passenger side greets. “Got here as soon as I could. Brought some help,” he says, pointing with his thumb at the older man getting out of the driver's seat.

Elijah only looks at him, not sure what look he is making. “Gavin. Connor… Connor is-  _ I messed up. _ ”

Gavin sneers, then pulls Elijah into a rough hug, growling. “Don't be fucking stupid, you're too smart for that. You're not a god, you don't have any say in what happens to other people, got it? We don't know what happened here, but I can tell you already you didn't have anything to do with it.”

Elijah lets himself cling to Gavin's jacket a moment, then he backs away. Gavin looks almost grateful—Elijah knows how much he hates any display of affection, and he can only imagine how much it took for him to actually try to comfort Elijah, with a hug no less, in his own way. It makes the stone in his chest lighter. “Luther, this is Gavin Reed, my brother. He's a detective with the police. Gavin, this is my head of security, Luther.”

Gavin nods sharply, glancing at his side where the old man is now standing, looking even more awkward than Gavin. “This is Hank Anderson, who's here because he owes me some favors. He might not be here willingly, and he's almost ready for retirement, but he's good at sniffing shit out.”

“I'll remember  _ that _ the next time you come crawling for help,” Hank grunts, rolling his eyes. “So, Reed didn't actually tell me anything after dragging me out of bed, just that there's been a crime. Which one of you will tell me what's happened?”

Elijah sighs when all eyes turn to him, waving a hand at Luther. “You know as much as I do, tell them. Tell them everything, about what happened here and about the stalker.”

Luther nods and starts talking, concise and professional, and Elijah listens while the two officers nod and interrupt to ask questions now and again. Elijah has told Gavin about most of what happened to Connor -the two might not be friends, but they have met several times through Elijah, and Gavin was the one who told Elijah to hang onto every bit of evidence he gets- but the lieutenant is completely new to everything going on, and he's the one asking about details none of them had considered as well details they had. Eventually he puts away his notebook and looks around with a grimace. 

“This where shit happened tonight?” Hank asks, gesturing towards the darkened spot on the concrete. After getting a positive answer he pulls out a flashlight, looks around. “Attack happened sometime between 2:40 and 3. There is light here, but still enough shadows to hide in. Reed, go check out that area, see if you can't find any traces of where the guy might have waited.”

Gavin doesn't even scowl at the order, only nods and pulls out his own flashlight as he walks. Meanwhile Hank gets down on one knee and looks around, using the flashlight. Elijah swallows when he hears him grunt, strains his neck to see when the older man reaches under the car—Connor's car. 

“I don’t suppose either of you might recognize these?”

Hank uses his pen to hold up a keyring, and Elijah's stomach plummets. He recognizes one of the items hanging between keys, a colorful symbol of a dick made in the rainbow colors. He had given that to Connor on his last birthday, with a wink and a leer, saying that it would help Connor keep him in his thoughts. Connor had dryly commented that, having seen Elijah naked before, he could truly appreciate how accurate the piece was—especially in size. While Chloe had laughed and Elijah pouted, though, Connor had stuffed it in his pocket.

And now it's right in front of Elijah's eyes, proof that something had happened. Something bad. Something he should have prevented.

“Elijah…” Luther's hand on his shoulder makes Elijah flinch, and he quickly turns around, rubbing his eyes and pretending his face isn't wet. He knows he's not doing a good job at it. 

“Well, fuck,” he hears the lieutenant sigh. “Assault and a kidnapping. Reed, call this in. Best to make it official.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really gotta thank all you people reading and giving kudos and commenting. You give me so much motivation to write I don't know what to do with it. Love you all!
> 
> This chapter is as usual dedicated to helig and bee and the wonderful people at the server.

Bright, merciless light blinds him the moment Connor opens his eyes, and he immediately closes them, moving his arm to block the light. Or, tries to. His arm only rises a little, then it falls back down on the soft surface. He doesn't think much of it, only makes a noise in protest as he tries moving his head. It works, a little. His head is so heavy, everything is heavy, but if he focuses as hard as he can he is able to move it, slowly but surely.

The light dims, and he sighs in content. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize the light would bother you.”

The bed dips—yes, that's right, he's in a bed, it's soft, with soft pillows and a thick cover on top of him—and a hand takes his. He feels the thumb stroking the back of his hand, gently, wonders why it doesn't comfort him. “I'm happy that you're awake. Since I'm sure it will take some time for you to come to terms with this, it is after all a big life change, I have given you some help to calm you down. But don't worry, it's nothing dangerous, it's just to keep you calm. In a few days, when you have had time to process everything, then I'll wean you off of it. Ah, but don't be afraid. I'm sure it can be nervous hearing someone talk about drugs and injections like this, but I assure you that I know what I'm doing. I might not have completed my education, but I did go to medical school for two years. You're in good hands, I swear. I would never do anything to harm you.”

Connor keeps his eyes closed, lets the voice talk while he desperately tries to make sense of what the man is saying. He doesn't understand, why is it so hard to think, to move? Where is he? What happened? Who is the man talking to him, why is he speaking like he and Connor know each other? Do they?

A hand lightly grasps his face and turns his head, and the voice speaks again. “I know that you're awake, but can you do me a favor, Connor? Can you open your eyes and look at me?”

He can't think of a reason not to, so Connor slowly opens his eyes, blinks a few times.

“There you go, that's a good boy. Now, I'm going to hold up a finger in front of you. Can you follow it with your eyes?”

Connor blinks, sluggishness making his eyes heavy, but he focuses on the single finger that appears. When it moves he follows it, and he blinks again when it disappears.

“That's good, that's very good. You are doing as well as I hoped you would be. Like I said, you're in no danger here. I'll take care of you.”

Connor blinks then focuses on the man sitting next to him, holding his hand with a big smile. He doesn't look like anything in particular. Short light brown hair, green eyes, white skin, a bit on the skinny side, average appearance. Connor doesn't remember him, doesn't recognize him. He doesn't recognize the room, from what he sees when he looks around. It looks like an ordinary bedroom, or a living room with a bed? It’s confusing, too much to think about, so he moves on.

He has no idea where he is, no recollection of anything. He tries to remember, tries to think back on the last thing he knows happened. The club. He remembers the club, remembers working. Remembers those two first timers, how much fun he had. Remembers chatting with Markus, remembers how happy he was, how perfect everything felt.

He remembers showering, getting dressed, going out to wait for Markus by his car. He remembers seeing Markus, how easily he took Connor's breath away. He remembers talking, he remembers-

_He remembers._

“Hey, no, Connor, calm down, everything is fine. Connor, can you hear me?”

He feels hands pushing him down into the bed but Connor doesn't actually notice, doesn't think about it. He tries to get his mouth to work, tries to scream. His hands don't work, his arms are so weak, his body barely moves, and he wants to cry, he can't, he _can't_ -

Markus. Beautiful Markus. Being struck from behind. The first kick, the second kick. Blood on the ground. Blood coming from Markus. Because of him. Because he had been warned to stay away, but he hadn't obeyed. Because of _him_.

Connor stares up at the man above him. He knows. God. He _knows_ who he is.

“Oh, Connor,” the man sighs, and Connor realizes his whole body is shaking. He has no control, can't make it stop. The man leans to the side, takes something out of a bag, takes Connor's arm easily, not even noticing Connor's attempts to pull it back. Connor scrunches his eyes shut when he sees the needle, keeps trying to pull away, keeps trying to scream.

“There we go. It's just a sedative, to make you calm again. It should start working soon.” The man pats Connor's arm, rubs the area where he had injected the sedative. “I need you to be calm, Connor. You need a clear head to come to terms with this change, you know? And I know you will, because you're such a logical, sensible person. It's what I love about you.”

Connor wants to flinch when the man caresses his face, but all he manages is a minute jerk of his head. His heart is beating so hard, so fast, he hears the furious drumming clearly in his ears, wonders with half a mind how the man can be so unaffected by it before he realizes that, of course he can't hear it, it's Connor's own heartbeat. The impulse to laugh is abrupt, sweeping over him, and he smiles, he smiles, he opens his mouth and laughs, at least he can laugh, and he has tears in his eyes from how much he laughs.

He stops laughing when the man wipes away the tear that ran from the corner of his eye, opens his eyes reflexively. The man is smiling down at him, with affection, fondness, _love_ . The smile quickly slides off of Connor's face, he can feel it all too clearly, feel the blankness coming up, hiding his true feelings. It's an old habit, one Elijah has been complaining about, but now he's happy that he never worked on getting rid of it. He doesn't know what the man, his kidnapper, his _stalker_ , would do if Connor openly showed the disgust he felt.

“Your laughter is the most beautiful sound I know,” the man says and keeps his hand on Connor's face, and he wants to turn, wants to _bite it_ , wants to hurt him.

“I've actually recorded it at a few occasions. Nothing gets me through the day quite like hearing your laughter and the pictures of your smiles giving me strength. And now, now I get to keep it all to myself.”

Connor stares at the man's smile, just lies still and stares. It doesn't take too long for the smile to drop, an awkward silence settling. Connor focuses on breathing, one, two, flexes his fingers, stares. He's tired, exhausted, the soul crushing kind that he had been trying to ignore for months now. He always felt better after seeing Markus' smile, hearing Markus' voice, his _laughter_.

Markus might be dead, now. There had been a pool, growing. Connor didn't have too much medical knowledge, but he knew kicks to the heads were bad. There had been blood. How much blood could a person lose before they died? How much could their heads be kicked, beaten at, before they died?

This man has recorded him, his laughter. Several times. Taken picture after picture after picture after picture. Of him. Claiming it did to him what Markus' presence did to Connor. Claiming that bit of happiness, of Connor, for himself. Parts of Connor that he didn't want to give, that no one had the right to.

Markus might be dead. This man might have killed him. Connor's laughter gave him strength to get through the day. He said he loves Connor.

He killed Markus.

He feels nothing but coldness, from his fingers, his head, to his toes, his chest, his heart. His thoughts are too much, too frantic, to erratic for him to try to keep up with. All he can focus on is the fear, the anger, the image of Markus lying on the ground, blood pooling under his head, his body so still, the man coming between them. He doesn't know if Markus died or not, because he couldn't reach, because that man didn't let him. “You…”

He doesn't realize at first the word came from him. It sounded to strange, so quiet, so unlike his voice. But the man lights up and immediately starts talking. “Yes, that's right! You're so right, of course, I forget myself. I'm somewhat of a loner, you see, ever since I quit school. I never felt like I needed someone else, you know, no one except you. No one ever understood me, not like you do. I- it's embarrassing to say, but I don't think I've had an actual conversation with someone for a pretty long time. I've been so focused on you, on us, you see? Busy taking care of this, preparing for us. I'm-

“Ugh, I'm doing this all wrong, aren't I? Messing it up, making a bad first impression in such an important conversation.” The man stands up, agitated. Connor follows him with his eyes, watches him pace. “I wanted this to be perfect, I had _everything_ planned! Every little bit. It would have been so good, you know, but then _he_ had to mess my schedule up. No one invites someone into their apartment late at night to 'look at art', hah!” The man has such hatred in his face. Connor can only see Markus, the blood, _Markus_. He understands hating, at that moment.

The man takes a deep breath and sits down, smiles at Connor like everything is fine, like they are just two people happening to meet and start to talk, like he doesn't have Connor drugged and confined to a bed in some unknown place, like Connor wouldn't mind seeing his face bloodied the way Markus' had been.

“We were never formally introduced, so let's start with that. I'm Jared. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Connor.” He takes Connor's hand and lifts it, giving his knuckles a quick kiss. Connor wants to shudder at the sight, at the feeling. Jared chuckles a little after that, like they are sharing a joke between them. “Although acquaintance isn't the word I'd choose. We are so much more than that, after all. Acquaintance…

“Oh, there's so much I want to tell you, Connor. So many times have I imagined sitting together, just you and I, talking until we lose track of time. Sharing stories, memories, details of our lives. Of course, I know most of the details of your life, but I would love to get your perspective on everything. Like, did you ever regret pushing yourself so hard at that festival in high school so you broke your ankle? You being you, I'm sure you would have won the race easily. And how did you feel when Aidan died? You two were always together up until then, as close as twins can be. No parents, and then, as though the world wanted to take all happiness from you, no brother. How did you feel about that? The accident, such a horrible one… did you feel left behind? _Guilty_?” Jared frowns, holds Connor's hand tight. There's sympathy in his face, his voice. Genuine sympathy. Connor is too busy understanding what he's saying to have any energy to think about what that makes him feel.

“I don't know how it would feel, I'm an only child, but- it must have hurt so bad. Maybe that's why it was so easy for that vulgar hustler to trick his way into your life. Oh, Connor, if I had only been around back then, I would have stopped him from ever getting near you. You wouldn't have had to work at that- that _disgusting_ place. I would have given you all the money you needed, helped you with anything, everything. You know I would, I have given my heart for you. I would give everything I have, as long as it makes you happy.”

Connor frowns, wanting to protest but finding neither the words nor the strength to do so. Besides, Jared has already moved on in his chatter. He might have talked about wanting the two of them to talk with each other, but he doesn't have any problems rambling on on his own, Connor thinks and wonders if he's amused or nauseous. He can't feel any difference right now, he's been feeling so much so intensely that he has trouble differentiating the emotions now. Nausea is the same as hunger is the same as anger is the same as fear is the same as joy is the same as grief is the same as hatred is the same as nausea. It all goes round and round and round, and he has stopped being able to tell them apart. It feels like they're all spinning around in his head, in his chest, quick to push past each other to be the one to reach Connor's heart. He can't keep track of them, because they're all there, all the time, all trying to get his attention - like eager patrons during a performance, waving and calling out for him, hoping that _they_ will be looked at, he will smile at _them_ , slide over to wink and take _their_ money.

“-nor, look at me. Are you listening?”

Connor blinks and the strange club-like fantasy he had been imagining disappears, giving way to the simple room. He finds that he prefers the imagination, no matter how strange those blotchy creatures had been. “No.”

Oh, he managed to speak. Connor takes a moment to rejoice about that, feeling the corners of his mouth lift. Jared doesn't seem as happy, though, and frowns at Connor, looking at him like he is a misbehaving child. It makes the angerhatredirritation stronger, and he frowns back. Maybe. Either that or he's still smiling. Is he smiling? Is he frowning with a smile? Is it possible to smile while frowning, or frowning while smiling? It would be a question Elijah would have so much fun answering, probably thinking and talking about it for a whole evening, long after Connor has forgotten he ever asked.

“Connor, you need to focus. It's rude not to listen when people talk to you, remember?”

He knows. He doesn't like that either. When you are in a conversation with someone you should always focus on it, not let your thoughts stray, that's what Connor thinks. But he also doesn't think he cares right now. It's a strange realization to make.

Jared looks at him for a moment, then sighs. He leans forward and presses his lips against Connor’s forehead, and it takes one long moment for Connor to realize what happened, for his body to fill with disgust. By that time Jared has already gone back to looking around the room, patting Connor’s hand.

“Perhaps now is not the best time for us to converse. You are tired and have a lot to think about, I'm sure. I'll leave you for a bit, let you settle in. But don't worry, I won't be gone for too long. I have a few things to do, but I'll be back for dinner.” He smiles and gets to his feet.

“It’s so good to see you here, Connor, you can't imagine. It feels so surreal, like a dream that has finally become true. Part of me can't believe it’s true, that you’re here and I can see you and touch you. That if I go away you will be here when I come back. God, I love you so much.”

Connor closes his eyes and wishes for silence, for that man to stop talking at him, to be left alone.

“I’ll be back soon. I love you, Connor.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, so many thanks to helig because I don't know what this would all look like without you.

Day 1, 1:46 PM.

By the time Elijah makes his way to the hospital there is a much bigger group gathered in Markus’ room than he had expected. Aside from Luther and Kara Elijah sees Amelia and Traci, a trio of young people he doesnt recognize, and an old man in a wheelchair holding onto Markus’ free hand with a young man behind him. For a second he stands frozen in the doorway, staring as the people inside chat with quiet voices, still a couple seconds from noticing him. The guilt is heavy in him, rooting him to the floor—a black, tentacled creature resting in the deep of his stomach, reaching out to choke him. 

A soft hand touches his back, a warm and calming presence pressing against his back. For a moment he is so grateful to Chloe, so floored by her and that she wants to be in his life that for a moment he wants to cry. Then the hand pushes him, just enough that he takes a step forward, and all eyes turn to him. 

Tough love, he can hear her say, with that innocent smile of hers. The devil hiding behind too bright beauty. Merciless mischief hiding behind clear blue eyes. 

“Hello, Elijah,” the man in the wheelchair says with a weak smile. He looks pale, thin, tired. Elijah knows who he is and why he is looking so haggard. 

“Hello, Carl.” He doesn't know what else to say, how to start. Markus lying unmoving in that hospital bed is his fault, after all. How can he ask his old friend for forgiveness after being responsible for his son, who Elijah hired, being assaulted? 

“Who is this?” a beautiful woman with long auburn hair asks, not a little suspicious as she hovers over Markus’ left side. 

“This is Markus’ employer, as well as my good friend Elijah Kamski,” Carl explains to the group Elijah assume are Markus’ friends. Luther and his other employees all react with surprise too at the second part of Carl’s explanation. While always a good employer Elijah isn't necessarily that forthcoming with his private life—he is their employer and they are his employees after all. He sees no reason to overshare.

“He was a friend of my father’s,” Elijah explains, not quite managing to look at Carl. “So we have known each other most of my life. Carl used to be a regular sight at the club.”

“Oh yes, those were the days, weren't they? And then old age caught up to me.” Carl chuckles but Elijah can’t make his mouth answer the smile. Chloe’s fingers squeeze his quickly. 

“Good day, Carl, Leo,” she greets Carl and his oldest son, who nods at her silently. It’s clear to see from the way he holds himself—arms crossed over his chest, narrowed eyes, standing behind Carl and a good distance to anyone else—that he’s not enjoying being there. Elijah knows enough about Leo to guess that no one else is especially happy about his presence either. 

“How is he?” Elijah asks with a too thick tongue, taking several more steps into the room, driven by Chloe’s arm in his. 

“As good as one can expect,” Carl says with a mix of sadness and pride, patting Markus’ hand. “The doctors are optimistic about his recovery. They think that, as long as he gets the proper amount of rest and goes to a physical therapist, he will regain full movement of arm and fingers. Hi- the trauma to his head wasn't as bad as it could have been. They want to keep him here in medical induced coma for the next 24 hours, to let all of the swelling go down, then they’ll let him wake up by himself. Hopefully there should be no more problems.”

“He’s a fighter,” Luther says, and Carl shoots him a quick smile. 

“That he is. He always have been, my boy. He’ll fight his way back from this, I'm sure.”

The words seem to hammer into Elijah’s head, Carl’s soft voice, too full of love, being the hammer and each word a nail. He had gone most of the day without even thinking about Markus, only focusing on gathering the evidence he had and bringing them to Gavin at the station, only focusing on  _ Connor _ , up until Chloe had told him that Markus was out of surgery. He had forgotten the son of his oldest friend, the son he had put in harm's way by his own incompetence. Markus could have died and Elijah wouldn't have remembered about him until he got the news. 

“Now, how long have you all been here? Have any of you actually eaten?” Carl looks around and waves a bony hand. “Go on, out of here, all of you! I don't want to see any of you here again for at least the next hour, do you hear me? I'll stay here, I have all my vitamins ready. And, Elijah, why don't you stay here and keep me company? It has been such a while since we last had a good conversation.”

With quick glances and almost hidden smiles—Elijah definitely sees each of them, and while he’s too distracted now he will remember for later—the room empties, until only Carl, Leo, Elijah, and Chloe remains around Markus’ bed. Leo looks- hostile would be too soft a word. He has never been too fond of his adoptive brother, but seeing Markus unmoving in a hospital bed seems to have awakened his protective instincts, and the glare he directs at Elijah shows a clear indication of where he puts the blame. Elijah wonders if it’s his own guilt Leo picks up on, and decides it doesn't matter. 

Chloe leans up and presses her lips against his cheek, her hand tightening on his arm for a moment before letting go. With a sunny smile she turns towards Leo and holds out her arm. “It has been too long. Leo, why don't we join the others, and you can tell me what’s going on in your life. How is your restaurant idea coming along?”

Carl and Elijah stays silent as Chloe leads Leo out of the room, her chattering cutting off abruptly as the door closes behind her. Elijah stares out through one of the windows—he can't bring himself to look at either Carl or Markus. It hurts too much. 

“Elijah.” He knew it was coming, he knows Carl got everyone out so they could talk, and it’s precisely the reason why Elijah came there, but even so he tenses at Carl’s voice. “Why don’t you sit here. You look like you need a seat more than I do.”

He manages to cross the room and sit down in the chair Carl gestures at without actually looking at him, but once actually sitting down Elijah can’t avoid it any longer. 

“Carl, I…” He looks up and freezes, because Carl is looking at him, smiling with such heartbreaking care and love that it almost suffocates him.

“Talk to me, son. You are so good at that, don’t hold it in now. Let me know what’s plaguing your mind.”

Elijah sighs and rubs his face, closes his eyes. Here it goes. Now he’ll get to find out if his remaining father figure will ever smile at him again. “A year ago an envelope was put in front of the backstage door, directed to Connor. It contained photos of him, taken in secret, and a long letter declaring eternal love to him. Connor and I, we didn't think much of it, I only told Luther and his team to keep their eyes out for any unusual customers. But once every month, every second month, there’s been a new envelope, new pictures, new letters, and- other things.  _ Personal _ things. The guy, we figured out it was a guy, he kept stalking Connor. Everywhere. Connor refused to do anything about it, so I just… did nothing. I knew that it wouldn't just end, I knew that there would be a confrontation eventually, and I still- he almost killed Markus. He got- he has Connor. All because I pretended nothing would happen, even though I  _ knew _ better. He  _ has Connor _ . Because of  _ me _ .”

“Connor, you say. The boy Markus is sweet on?”

Elijah feels the question like another weight in his chest. “Yes. I believe their evolving relationship pushed the stalker into action at last. They were supposed to- Connor was supposed to go home to Markus after their shift. We all hoped that they would admit their feelings for each other.”

“And he is a good friend of yours as well, isn't he?”

“I treasure him as much as I do Chloe.” That’s why he is feeling like part of him died. 

“And you say this all happened because of your negligence?”

Elijah swallows, only nods. He knows that it is. He might not have done anything to Connor or Markus, but the stalker only got to them because Elijah didn't act as he should have. It  _ is _ all his fault. 

“Oh. Oh, my dear boy.” Elijah’s eyes flies open as he feels a pair of arms encircle him, tugging him close with surprising strength. There is no anger in Carl’s eyes, no blame. “What happened here is not your fault, do you hear me? You did not do this, Elijah. It’s not your fault, no matter what you might say to yourself. My sweet, sweet boy.”

It’s like the last locks keeping his control in check snaps. Shaking all through his body Elijah lowers his head to Carl’s chest, lets himself be held, and cries.

 

-

 

Day 1, 7:31 PM.

“This is some fucking bullshit.” Gavin growls and tries not to throw his pen at his computer screen. It would either damage the screen or it would bounce off and hit him in the face or his coffee cup or something, because lady luck is apparently feeling like being a bitch.

“You're sounding like you've never had anything but smooth-sailing cases,” Hank scoffs from across the table, not even looking up from the papers in his hand. 

“Oh, fuck you. This is a case that’s important to my brother, Anderson, and we have nothing. Fucking nothing. I know this kid. Connor. He’s a good sort—annoying as fuck, but good. And I'm just sitting here on my ass while that sick fuck is doing god knows what to him.”

Hank sighs and looks up, frowning at him through the glasses he only wears when he has to read paper documents. He looks fucking ridiculous, Gavin thinks but knows better than to say. He’s pissed off, but not enough to know that he needs to not piss Anderson off as well.

“You sure you're not too closely involved, Reed? It’s hard to think clearly when you know and care about the victims. Maybe me, or some other detective, should head this one instead.”

“Just fucking try it.” 

“Fine, fine. Not gonna push it, not now anyway. But if you lose control and start throwing things around you’re benched, no matter what you feel about it, are we clear?” 

Gavin forces his hand to stop squeezing the pen and faces Hank’s sharp eyes head on. Hank is the superior officer, he has the right to bench whichever lower ranking officer he feels isn't doing their job, and Gavin remembers that he asked for his help for a reason. Hank Anderson is a damn good cop, with instincts better than Gavin’s own even and far more experience. 

“Crystal,” he mutters. 

Hank rubs his own face. “Trust me, Reed, you're not the only one frustrated. Kidnappings are awful, and long-time stalkers doing it? Not my favorite cases, exactly. And this kid seems alright from everything I have seen so far. I want us to find him, I  _ really  _ do. We’re doing all we can; people are going over all the security tapes Kamski turned in, we sent the semen samples to the lab, hell, we even have people knocking doors. And while you were whining about what a tough job you have I've been going through this nut job’s letters, which,  _ fuck _ , I just want to forget everything I've read in the last hour, this shit is creeping me out.”

Gavin makes a grimace and looks down at his own copies of the letters, reading one at random for a few minutes before putting it down. “ _ Fuck _ . He mentions watching Connor sleep, shit. Means he broke into the apartment at least one time. God, that's making  _ me  _ want to check my apartment door.”

Hank makes a noise of disgust and shakes his head. “He’s dreamed up a whole life away from reality. He keeps talking about the things he’s watched Connor do as though they were doing it together, and whenever he talks about the future it’s always ‘we’ or ‘us’ or ‘our.’ Definitely delusional. The way he writes about the people surrounding Connor makes me think he has anger issues too. Delusional and possibly violent if rejected. Wonderful freaking combination.”

Gavin thinks of the last time he had seen Connor, back at Elijah’s birthday party two months earlier, drunk and giggling over at the couch with Chloe settled on his lap, just as giggly as him. He thinks of the many kidnapping victims he’s seen, the wounded, the battered, the broken, both living and dead. He thinks of the things he has read in the letters, the things this stalker wants to do to and with Connor. 

He feels sick. 

“Hey, Chen!” he calls, leaning back in his chair. “How we doing on those alibis?”

“Don’t yell, I'm coming over, asshat.” 

Gavin plays with his pen, keeping his eyes on Tina gathering the relevant papers. It’s much better than looking at the things covering his own desk. 

“Okay, let's see.” The policewoman looks through the files in her hand and nods to herself. “Right. Elijah Kamski and his girlfriend Chloe, we have multiple cameras showing them entering their apartment and leaving. The timestamps for both match the information they gave. The employees at the strip club have all has their alibis verified as well. We have managed to reach four of Mr Stern’s, uh, regulars and so far I've verified three of their alibis, though the last one feels like it’s only a matter of time too. I have  _ not  _ actually been able to verify Mr Manfred’s ex-girlfriend’s alibi, it was- ‘sleeping alone in my bed like a normal fucking human’ might be, you know, just a regular alibi, but there's no way to prove it.”

“And exes are always important to talk to,” Hank says with a shrug. “Even if I have a feeling that, in this case, she might not have all that much to say. Better talk to her anyway. Anyone called her in?”

“Yes, sir, I did.” Tina looks at her watch. “She said she would be here in fifteen, so she should be here in the next few minutes.”

“Thanks, Tina,” Gavin says and gives her a quick smile. “Good work, as always.”

“Any time, Gav. I'll go back to working on the list, there’re still several people to track down.”

“Yeah, good, do that.” They nod at each other, then Gavin turns back to his desk while Tina walks back to hers with brisk steps. Swallowing his unease he takes up the letter he had been working with, but he only gets through a few words before he has to put it down again. Reading the words, the wishes of a sick mind, does nothing but make him think about those numerous victim photos, only with Connor’s face in each of them. 

“Did we- have we heard from any of the guys talking with the club employees?”

Hank heaves a sigh, but to Gavin’s amazement he only puts down his papers and removes his glasses, doesn't mention Gavin’s inability to focus on what he should be working on. “Yeah, a while ago. Must've been really caught up in this shit if you missed the computer pinging. Even I heard yours go off.”

Gavin scowls at his hands and shakes his head. “Well, I missed it. So what did they say?”

“First off, there are no witnesses. The last thing anyone saw of both victims were them going out through the back door, that's it. However, there were several people who remembered, when prompted, that Connor seemed strangely tired when he left. According to one statement ‘he couldn't seem to stop yawning,’ which, I guess, was unlike him?”

Gavin nods. “Probably was. He’s been working four to five nights at that club for over one and a half year, his body should be used to that schedule. If he was visibly tired enough for several of his coworkers to notice, then it was something out of the ordinary.”

“Thinking most likely drugged, then.”

Gavin nods again, but crosses his arms as he frowns up at the ceiling. “The question is how that fucker managed to drug him. The whole strip joint business is shady to begin with, everyone who works it knows to never eat or drink anything they're not absolutely certain about. It’s basic common sense, and you don't survive for long in the business without some.”

Hank is silent for some time, long enough for Gavin to turn a scowl at him. 

“Something you want to say?”

Of course the dark face does nothing, the old timer has seen way worse. Hank only tilts his head, expression unimpressed. “Just curious. You seem to know a lot about ‘the business,’ as you called it. There’s also the fact Elijah Kamski, who is apparently your brother which I've never heard a word about before, owns one of the city’s most popular strip clubs, and I  _ know _ that one’s been around since before both of you were born. There’s also the fact that, while the two of you are apparently brothers, you have different surnames.”

“Just a bunch of facts, isn't it. No questions that I heard,” Gavin says with a sneer. Then, with a shake of his head, he glares at Hank. “Only gonna tell this once. Half-brothers, share a dad. Dad was a piece of two-timing shit, got me first and then two years later Elijah. Found out about each other when he died, leaving the club to Elijah who hadn't even turned 18 yet and the knowledge of who my deadbeat dad was to me. We grew close, I helped him with the club and shit, we’ve stayed close, I keep helping with the club sometimes. Just not anyone’s fucking business, that's all.”

Hank nods, not bothered at all by Gavin’s hostile tone. “Yeah, that all makes more sense now. Heh. Who knew you were a big brother.”

“No one, and that's how I've always preferred to keep it.” Gavin rolls his eyes, ignoring the sensation of having shared too much, of opening himself up too much, of showing too much weakness. It’s Hank. They work together, Gavin knows he’s a good guy. There’s no reason to feel so fucking antsy. 

“I'm not gonna blabber,” Hank says with a shrug. “No reason to.”

But he thought it was no big deal to pry in the first place, Gavin thinks, crossing his arms. 

“Detective Reed?” 

Looking over his shoulder he spots one of the uniformed officers, obviously nervous now that she has gotten both Gavin’s and Hank’s attention. 

“The person you wanted to speak to has arrived? I put her in interrogation room two, then came to tell you.”

“You told her her rights and all of that? Good, good. We’ll take it from here.” Gavin stands up and stretches, pressing his back until he hears a satisfying  _ pop _ . “Right, finally something that might not make me want to puke. You ready, old man?”

Hank was shaking his head, gathering some papers and his notebook. “Messing up your back like that… of course I'm ready, dipshit. Come on.”

It’s easy to let Hank lead the way, and as they walk into the interrogation room he lets Hank sit down while he himself leans against the wall and studies the suspect. 

Damn, he had no idea she was going to be so freaking hot. 

As though sensing his thoughts the woman glares at him, crossing her arms. Not only hot, but a damn good glare as well. There is something in her eyes that tells Gavin she could bust his ass if she ever needed to, and would be happy to do it. 

He probably shouldn't find that as hot as he does. 

“So, I'm sure you know why we’ve called you in here, miss-" Hank starts, but he is quickly interrupted by the woman raising her hand.

“North. Just North.” She’s beautiful, but looks like she’s a moment away from thrashing the room. For every second Gavin spends near her he likes her more and more. “And yeah, I do. My ex boyfriend got assaulted and sent to the hospital, the guy he was seeing has been kidnapped. As the ex I'm an obvious suspect.”

Hank nods, not even trying to hide his smile. Gavin isn't the only one who likes her, clearly. “That’s correct. You might not be high on the suspect list, but all options needs to be examined. Have you been told your rights?”

“Yeah, yeah. I don't need a lawyer, I want the fucker who did this to Markus found and I want his boy to be found as soon as possible too.” North’s glare falters, and she lowers her gaze to the table. The way she holds her arms seems more like hugging herself than just crossing them. “If anything happens to him… I was the one who convinced Markus to finally get a move on and ask Connor out. If anything happens to him, Markus will never be the same, and it will all be because I had to put my nose where it didn't belong.”

Gavin groans and marches over to sit down, glaring at North who is watching him with raised eyebrows. “I'm so sick and tired of all of you feeling guilty and wallowing in misery you have no fucking place in. I'm just gonna tell you this once, okay, so better fucking listen. The only one who’s to blame for this whole shit is the nut job stalker who kidnapped Connor. No one else.”

Hank snorts and immediately tries to hide it as a cough, but Gavin can’t give less of a shit. He just thinks of Elijah, looking utterly lost and despairing, completely sure that he’s responsible for Connor’s kidnapping. It’s a look Gavin never ever wanted to see, and he has sworn he’ll make sure the stalker pays for putting it on his brother’s face. 

“Okay…”

With a blink Gavin comes back to the present, with Hank still hiding his smile behind a fisted hand and North looking at him with raised eyebrows—but her posture has relaxed and she looks more like she’d like to scrape him off her boot instead of like she might start crying. All in all a much better look. Still doesn't make Gavin feel less awkward, though. “Yeah, exactly. Don't, uh, forget it. Yeah.”

“Right.” She stares at him for another beat, then turns her full focus on Hank instead, finally letting Gavin breathe. “Give me what you got.”

Hank shakes his head, his smile looking more self-replicating than amused now. “Too short a list, I'm afraid. But let’s start with the basics. How do you know the two victims?”

“Markus and I have been friends for five years. We dated last year, for some unknown reason—I blame temporary insanity. Broke up, I don't know, six, seven months ago? Haven't kept track. We’re still tight, he’s one of my best friends. I've never met Connor, but Markus talks about him and shows pictures of him so often it feels like I know everything about him.”

“So you wouldn't say you have any residual feelings for Mr Manfred?” 

“Hell no.” North snorts and shakes her head. “If anything that brief period taught me, it was to never get involved with a man again. You all think with your dicks, and Markus really isn't any different. All it gave me was enough ammunition to get him to do my bidding for the rest of his life.”

Gavin grins, leans forward on his arms and wiggles his eyebrows. “And what about the women with dicks?”

North’s look immediately makes him regret opening his mouth. “Real cute, detective ass. Men are men and women are women, and you don't have shit to say about what their bodies may look like, so maybe just keep your mouth shut if you have nothing intelligent to say. Have you never heard sweeping statements before, or do you just feel the need to answer every single one with comments no one finds funny?”

Yeah. He would just… keep his mouth shut, as suggested. Maybe that way he could eventually retrieve the respect she had lost for him. Hopefully. 

Dammit he really should stop making those dumb jokes. It was far from the first time someone had shot him down, though North’s response had been better at cutting him off at the knees than most others’. Maybe he should listen to Tina and learn to control his mouth.

Hank clears his throat, keeping his eyes carefully on the open notebook in front of him. “So, you wouldn't have any reason to feel jealous, or envious, or in any other way feel negatively about Markus pursuing a relationship with someone else.”

North breathes out through her nose and focuses on Hank again. “Exactly. He’s my friend and I want him to be happy, no matter how mushy that sounds. So I've been pushing him to take the first step already and  _ do something _ about this crush of his instead of just pining.” Her mouth twitches, as though she doesn't know what expression to make. “And we all know just how great that went.”

Rather than answering her comment Hank scribbles in his notebook, then asks more questions for specifics. Gavin feels like he is nothing more than a waste of space now, but he can't make himself say anything. Hank knows what he’s doing, knows what questions to ask; there’s not really any reason  _ for _ Gavin to speak up, unless to make an ass of himself again. Really, in his opinion it was enough to lose a beautiful woman’s respect once. He doesn't necessarily feel the need to do it again. 

Instead he listens and takes down his own notes. Going in he had already known they were unlikely to hear anything that would actually be useful, but sitting and feeling the time go by was something else entirely. And what have they learned? 

Markus has some people he has pissed off during the last few years, but none that’s connected to the club or Connor in North’s knowledge. Only connection North, and through her Markus, has to Connor is the club. None of their mutual friends have ever visited the club or met Connor. So far, their lives have been completely separated. 

The stalker came into Connor’s life before he and Markus even met. Now, more than ever, Gavin is certain that Markus was just collateral damage. They wouldn't find Connor by going through Markus’ life. 

As Hank finishes the interview Gavin stays back, only getting North’s attention once before letting her leave. “I’m sorry for the joke, before. It was tasteless.”

“You could say that,” North agrees with cold eyes. 

Gavin sighs and rubs his neck. “I want to thank you for coming in here and answering our questions, even though I'm sure you would prefer to be in the hospital. We will continue to work, tirelessly, until we find the bastard. I admit that most of what I say is bullshit, but you can trust me on that. I  _ will _ get him.”

North watches him for a long moment before nodding, her face just a touch less hostile. “You better.”


	6. Chapter 6

D̴a̵y̵ ̵1̷?̴ ̸N̷o̶ ̸i̵t̷ ̸c̴a̶n̸'̷t̴ ̸b̵e̷.̵̒   
  
Connor is tired, but he’s also not. His eyes open easily, his arm moves slowly but surely under his control when he rubs his face. His mind, though, is nothing but a murky fog, almost impossible for any thoughts to pass through. His body aches, small inklings of pain only getting easier to feel when he shifts, and he can't remember why?    
  
“Good morning, Connor.”   
  
The man is familiar. It feels like he should know him, and he almost does, but the haze stops him from reaching the final piece of the puzzle—the memory piece that would tell him where he is and why the man smiling at him makes Connor want to crawl away.

“Who are you?” Connor has to use all his focus to get the words out. There is something at the back of his mind railing against it, railing against how hard it is. It shouldn't be so hard to simply  _ speak _ . He can't think of why right now, has to focus his attention on the man or else he’ll miss the answer. Later he’ll think about it. Later. 

The man sighs and looks down at Connor’s hand, rubs the back of it. He seems- disappointed? “I knew there was a chance of this. That’s why I tried not to talk to you too much yesterday, because I couldn't know what you'd remember or even if you'd remember any of what I told you. I'm Jared, Connor. Do you remember that name? I have been sending you letters for a long time now.”

Jared.  _ Jared _ . He remembers Jared, remembers that name, remembers the revulsion he felt when Jared introduced himself. He remembers the kiss, how he wanted to tear his hand away. He doesn't remember why exactly he felt such disgust, though, but he remembers the fee-

Letters. 

His breath catches in his throat as his mind catches up to what he had heard. Letters, sent to him, for a long time. He gets bills and advertisements sent to him, but no letters. He has no family, no old friends that would send letters. The people he knows now send texts or emails or call him. No one sends letters.

But he has received letters, plenty of them, over a period of time. They hadn’t been sent—they were all delivered, by hand. 347 days since the first one. Or is it 348 days? What day is it? 

Connor feels his breath quickening but he pays it no attention, only tries to push through the fog and  _ think _ . 

He doesn't know where he is. He is with Jared. Jared is his stalker. He is in an unknown place with his stalker. He can’t think clearly and his body is sluggish, which is abnormal. He’s probably been drugged. He is with his stalker in an unknown place, and he is likely drugged. 

There is no way he went with his stalker willingly. He must have been drugged and then taken to this unknown place. That's kidnapping. He’s been kidnapped. His stalker kidnapped him. 

But how? When? 

He doesn't think of why. He doesn't want to know why. He  _ doesn't want to know _ .

There are gaps in his memory, things he needs to remember. He knows now what sort of situation he’s in, and finding the gaps freezes his heart. He has to remember, he  _ needs _ to remember. 

“Easy now,” Jared murmurs, and Connor flinches at his touch. He stares up at the concerned frown on his stalker’s face. “Your pulse is racing. Do I need to calm you down again, or can you do it yourself? I would prefer not to use that sedative too much, so I would very much appreciate it if you can calm down, Connor.”

The sedative. Connor remembers. The needle, jabbed into his arm while he tried to protest, Jared ignoring him. He can almost think, if he focuses; he doesn't want to lose that, not again. 

“Don’t,” he says, whispers, screams, begs. He doesn't know. It doesn't matter. Jared hears him and nods, then waits. 

Connor looks away, looks at the bookcases covering one of the walls, tall and wide, only a small bit of wallpaper visible on each side of the row. He needs to calm down, needs to stop the panic he can feel coming now that he knows about it. Jared is there, making it hard, but he has to. He doesn't want the sedative; he needs to have his mind intact, as much as it can be. There are gaps in his memory, but he can’t work on trying to remember when Jared is right there with the threat of taking away his ability to think. 

There are four bookcases. Each one has seven shelves, filled with books. He can count the books on the bookcase closest to him, so he does. He likes numbers, likes numbers and cold hard facts. Of course, he also likes humans, likes animals, likes all living things and how they behave, how one can study them and find patterns in their behavior, but that they then can suddenly change and ignore that behavior. Yes, he enjoys living beings, finds them fascinating. But numbers and facts are comforting to him.

Top shelf: one book, three, eight, twelve, eighteen, twenty-four. Second shelf: three, seven, twelve, twenty, twenty-two. Twenty-four plus twenty-two makes forty-six. Third shelf: five, thirteen, twenty-one, twenty-nine. That makes seventy-five books. Middle shelf, fourth from the top: another twenty-nine books. 104 books in total. Fifth shelf, third from the bottom: twenty-three books. 127 books. Sixth shelf, second from the bottom, with twenty-one books. 148 books. Seventh shelf, the bottom most shelf: only seventeen books. Seventeen more books makes the total 165 books. 165 books in the first bookcase. 

“There, that's better, isn't it?” 

Jared’s voice makes the numbers flee Connor’s head. He closes his eyes and concentrates, but they're gone. The soothing bubble of counting shatters, but Connor manages to at least stop himself from going back to the panic he had felt before. He needs to stay calm, needs to pretend he feels nothing, needs to be blank, empty, hollow, needs to be nothing at all. 

He has looked up stalkers, read all that he could find, watched documentaries and shows and movies about it. He’s read the accounts of victims who made it out. He’s read about those who didn't. 

He wants to go home. He wants to hear Elijah’s teasing and see him leer as he avoids wandering hands. He wants to hug Chloe, kiss Kara’s cheek, kiss Luther’s cheek and smile as he blushes, snark at Gavin, listen to Traci gossip. He wants to stand at the bar while Markus works, wants to watch those intense eyes as he ensures each order is made correctly, wants to feel his heart stop as Markus looks up with that radiant smile, wants to feel the shivers run through his body as Markus’ voice seems to caress his skin with every syllable. He wants to go  _ home _ . Elijah is waiting for him, Chloe is waiting for him, Markus is waiting for him. 

To go home he needs to survive. To survive he needs to keep Jared happy, satisfied. To do that he needs to keep his feelings hidden, keep the distaste and revulsion off his face, pretend. 

Jared smiles at him when he opens his eyes. Connor doesn't sneer at him. When Jared leans down he doesn't try go push him away. When arms encircle him he doesn't jerk away, he doesn't scream, he doesn't cry. 

Pretend, he needs to pretend, needs to be blank, needs to be empty, he can't do anything, he needs to be still, do not, sit still, still, still. 

“I’m so proud of you, Connor. You're doing even better than I thought you would. This is only the second day we're together, but you're doing so good. I have such hopes for us, you’ll see.” 

Jared squeezes him, hugs him tighter. Connor can feel his cheek against his jaw and he forces back the repulsion. He will endure, he will survive, he  _ will _ go back home. 

His heart is beating loudly in his ears but it doesn't seem like Jared notices that. He finally,  _ finally _ , lets go of Connor and leans back. When he stands up Connor starts breathing again. 

“I was thinking that, since you are doing so good, why don't we just take it easy today? You like to read, so I got books I know you'll enjoy.” 

Jared walks over to one of the bookcases and raises his hand, picking one of the books. His smile is wide and happy as he walks back, but instead of sitting at the edge of the bed he drags one of the two armchairs closer. Connor didn't notice them before, over by the wall behind where Jared had sat. He does his best not to look at Jared, after all, or in his general direction. 

But as Jared sits down and makes himself comfortable Connor glances over, and then he can't look away. He feels sick. He’s frozen, petrified, to the core. His focus slips away, his head fills with static. His hands are shaking, but he doesn't notice. 

Markus had been deep in thought one day, far more philosophical than usual when Connor finally managed to make him talk. He talked about justice, happiness, souls. Connor usually did his best to follow whatever Markus was talking about, but after a while he could feel each word just slipping in one ear and out the other. Despite his fascination with people Connor had never been much for philosophy, which he had never before felt as clearly as he did right then, standing absolutely clueless in front of the man who could make him lose his mind with a simple wink. 

Eventually Markus had realized he could just as well have been talking to thin air, and Connor never could decide who seemed more embarrassed, him or Markus. 

Markus had told him about the book he had been reading, Plato’s Republic, and offered to loan Connor his version, and maybe once Connor had finished reading it they could talk about it, outside of work maybe, maybe somewhere nice, Markus knew this very nice café, but Connor didn't have to if he didn't want to, of course! 

Connor had smiled and said okay to it, okay to all of it, everything, and the next day he had gone home and started reading. He had gotten through four of the ten dialogues so far. Markus had been right, he discovered, it was a very fascinating read. 

Seeing the book in Jared’s hand makes something thick stick in Connor’s throat. He recognizes that bookmark. That stain in the upper corner had been there when Markus handed it over, and despite Connor’s curiosity he hadn't asked what it was. But the book is not supposed to be here, not in Jared’s hand, not in the room that holds Connor prisoner. It’s supposed to be in Connor’s apartment, in the nightstand next to his bed. If it’s here, if he can see it right now, that means-

“You are so serious about your reading,” Jared says with a smile, and Connor hates him, hates him,  _ hates him _ . “There are not many who would go through Plato with such speed and dedication like you do. I admire that about you, I truly do. Not only do you have an appearance that makes normal people cry in jealousy, but you have such a beautiful mind. You are- I can't describe the perfection you are. Connor.”

Jared stops, presses his hand to his chest, like he is overwhelmed? Connor is burning with hatred, in every part of his body. He needs to pretend, he needs to play the part, but he doesn't know and he doesn't care about what his face shows. That book is  _ his _ , Markus gave it to him, and now the disturbed bastard is spouting bullshit that makes Connor’s skin crawl. As though Connor would appreciate it. 

He wants to throw something. He  _ needs _ to throw something, do something,  _ anything _ . But the weakness he feels in his limbs when he pulls back his arms takes most of the fire out of him. 

He can't do anything. He can't let his anger show, he can't try to fight. He needs to  _ survive _ , that's the most important thing. That’s the only important thing. He needs to get back home, home to where Markus is. Markus promised they'd go out and talk when Connor had finished the book, and Connor refuses any reality where that doesn't happen. He absolutely  _ refuses _ .

“Since you wouldn't be able to hold the book I thought I'd read it to you,” Jared says and opens his eyes with a smile. It doesn't go away, doesn't even dim when he looks at Connor. He must have managed to regain the blankness, then. “It really isn't a problem. I know exactly where you left off, so it’s easy to just jump back in. I have read this before, but it will be a joy to rediscover the theories and discussions with you. And afterwards we’ll have many invigorating discussions, I just know it. Now, I will try to read slowly and carefully, since I know it can be difficult for you to focus right now, but if you have any problems following along, or if you need me to reread a section, don’t hesitate to tell me, okay? This is all for your sake, after all.”

Connor wants to hurt him, strangle him, kill him and see the life flee his body. But he blinks and leans back in the bed, looks up at the ceiling. Jared starts reading, so Connor focuses his attention on the lamp, letting Jared’s voice turn into background. He thinks of Markus, of his smile, of his embarrassed laugh as he handed over the book, the way he rubbed his arm as Connor took the book and looked it over. He thinks of nothing but surviving, and Markus, Markus, Markus. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to kat for the comment that still makes me cry of laughter: well, he's definitely not a "can't do math" gay, that's for sure


	7. Chapter 7

Day 2, 4:58PM.

Elijah looks tired. A year earlier, a month, hell, even a couple days earlier Gavin would’ve grinned and made a joke about Chloe keeping him up too late, or asked if he’d spent too much time at the club again. He doesn't feel even a ghost of that old urge now, feels nothing but frustrated helplessness.

It reminds him of one time—the only time when he saw Elijah looking similar to what he does now. It was right after their dad's death, with the funeral arrangements and school and the club all eating him up, but even then Elijah had had a spark of life, the determination to get through it all. There's no such spark now.

“Thank you for coming in again, Mr. Kamski,” Hank says, arranging his papers and notebook in front of himself.

“Of course. I've closed the club down for now, taken a break. No one can focus on work so I thought... Though I don't see what else I could tell you that I didn't already say yesterday.” Elijah rubs his neck with a carefully neutral face and looks at Gavin.

“We hoped that after some time you might have come up with more details,” Gavin explains, his tone gentler than he’s willing to admit. “That's why some of the questions we’ll ask will be the same as yesterday’s. Maybe some new details will come up when you think about it again.”

Elijah shakes his head, a sharp look coming over his face, but in the end he just crosses his arms. “Ask your questions.”

Hank clears his throat and glances at the papers again, as though he doesn't already know every single word on there. “You’ve known Mr. Stern for three years, is that correct? How did you meet?”

“We were both studying computer science at the time, and we started talking when we were studying algorithms and data structure. We’ve both moved onto different areas of studies since, but we stayed friends.”

“How long did you two study together? Were there any mutual acquaintances during this time?”

“Connor switched to biomedical engineering a year ago. I began studying mechanical engineering at roughly the same time.” Elijah lowers his eyes—almost closes them—as he thinks. “There were some other people we spent time with, others who were also in the same program, but they were never more than occasional study buddies. Connor’s never been too interested in making friends, and back then he was even worse, awkward and easily annoyed by the mistakes others made. It usually just ended up being the two of us.”

“How come you two stayed friends when he didn't accept anyone else? What was so special about you?”

Gavin and Elijah both look sharply at Hank. That’s a new question—one that rubbed Gavin the wrong way. They had already checked and made sure Elijah wasn't a suspect the day before, so why this kind of question now?

“I don't know,” Elijah answers, eyes narrowed, with a challenging tilt of his chin. “Perhaps because I ignored his attempts to push me away. Perhaps because I never made any mistakes. Perhaps because I was the only one able to challenge him, to outsmart him and find the answers of problems before he did. Perhaps because I was too pretty to push away for real.”

Gavin snorts at the last comment and shakes his head when Elijah winks at him. He looks- better. Indignation and annoyance has resulted in the good old arrogance showing up again, and looking at him doesn't make Gavin want to wrap him up in a goddamn blanket anymore.

“Perhaps. We'll have to ask him after we find him,” Hank says, a small smile twisting his lips. As if he knows they will find him, as if it's not a question of if but when.

Gavin could kiss him for it, for the way he cleared the darkness in his brother's eyes just with that short comment. Maybe he'll pay for the coffee next time they're out.

Hank rubs his head, face turning somber as he moves on. “What can you tell us about this stalker? When was the first time that you knew something was up?”

“The club is visited often by a certain sort of clientele,” Elijah says carefully. “It's not unusual for customers to get the wrong idea about their relationship with one of the dancers, both men and women. We have strict rules to try and prevent this, and we regularly encourage all employees to act immediately if they feel a customer is behaving inappropriately. Our security is trained to deal with these sorts of people, and we have a list of people who’re banned from entering. I do my best to keep all my employees safe.

“However, it's not unheard of for customers to send- gifts, letters, money, and more to the target of their attention. Everyone is advised to throw away everything, or sell what can be sold and take the money to the bank. Connor showed me the first letter he got.” Elijah stops and his face turns dark, twisted with hatred. It was hard to see where the hatred was directed, at the stalker or himself. “I thought it was _amusing_ , congratulated him and told him to throw it away and forget about it.”

“But there came more.”

Elijah covers his face with a hand. “A month later, there was a new envelope in front of the backstage door, with Connor's name written on it. This time there were pictures… so many of them. Connor tried to throw them away, pretend he hadn't gotten it, but I found out about them. Had them taken out from the trash so i could see them for myself and read the accompanying letter.” He sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I had the security go through all our films, tried to find any sign of anyone who had acted strangely to or around Connor. There was nothing. _No one_ had noticed anyone acting strange, much especially not Connor himself. The footage on the camera we had watching the door was destroyed, by what we realized must be some sort of EMP device. We couldn’t find _anything_. So- I gave up. Told Luther and his team to keep their eyes open, told Connor to tell me or any of the security if he noticed anything even slightly strange.”

Elijah sighs heavily and shakes his head. “Of course I didn't actually trust him to tell me if he did. He always wants to handle everything himself. So I had others keep an eye out when I was too busy to do it myself.”

“You turned in several pieces of evidence, which you’d been gathering this whole time.” Hank taps his pen against his notebook. “Can you tell us more about them?”

“Connor didn't want them, would’ve thrown them all away. I made sure to take the envelopes and all their contents with me instead—perks of having a police officer in the family,” Elijah says with a humorless smile. “You know you'll need evidence in case something happens. I’ve managed to save each envelope but that first one, and after the third one I began writing the dates and circumstances of each letter down. It took a few more months before the- stalker began writing the dates as well.”

“What sort of content did these envelopes contain?”

Gavin wants Hank to change subject already—hearing about this all again is bad enough, but seeing Elijah's face twist like that makes him wish he wasn't in the damn room—but he understands the reason behind this questioning. If they manage to get any new details then it will be worth it.

“Letters came with each one. They were addressed to Connor, insane love letters written as though they were in some kind of star-crossed lovers story. I tried to keep Connor from reading them—they made _me_ sick—but he's always been so damn stubborn.” Elijah rubs his forehead and continues with closed eyes. “Photos, always 15 of them, followed with each envelope after that. They are all made with high-quality photo paper, but no signs of them being printed professionally. Every single one was of Connor in his daily life—when he was at school or work, shopping, studying, working out, or relaxing at home.

“One time, there was a lock of hair that’d most likely been taken after Connor had cut his hair the week before, because the letter talked about sending the hair back as proof that he saves any part of Connor he can get his hands on. He had more.” Elijah's mouth keeps twitching as he talks, like he’s fighting a losing battle to keep his face emotionless. “Another time, there was a small vial of blood—just a few drops at most. I... we never figured out how he got that. And once there was a pressed bird of paradise flower.”

“That means something special, I take it?”

“It's a symbol of paradise, of course, as the name indicates,” Elijah says monotonously. Only his hands are moving, pressing against each other, possibly to keep them from shaking. “Other meanings of the flower are joy, faithfulness, excitement, and anticipation. Once we knew that, it was clear to me that the stalker wouldn't just give up and go away. He was excited for the future, and he wanted Connor to know.”

“When was this particular _gift_ given?” Gavin has to admire the way Hank can keep his voice level but at the same time insert so much disgust in one single word.

“Five months ago.”

The room is silent, but Gavin can almost hear the question that they’re all thinking of, the one he knows Elijah is tormented by. It was five months ago, after over half a year of continued harassment. Why didn't he act then?

Elijah smiles bitterly as he leans back in his chair, and his voice is strangely airy as he waves a hand dismissively. “No need to bite our tongues now. We’ve gotten this far, haven't we? Might as well finish it. We had months’ worth of evidence, yes, but that was it. Only items without fingerprints—I checked, it’s a fascinating technology, that—and no eye witnesses. The security tapes were damaged and useless. We knew nothing about him—no idea what he looked like, no clue what he was like—other than that he has an unhealthy obsession with Connor. And that was it. Connor himself didn't want to involve the police. Listed all the reasons I told you—but even more and in far greater detail—and said that having law enforcement involved would lead nowhere. He had it under control, he said,” Elijah hisses as he glares at his shaking hand, all traces of his smile gone. “He always kept an eye on his surroundings—was always prepared in case the stalker would approach him. He had control over it, he said. He had _control_.”

Gavin purses his lips and glances at Hank out of the corner of his eye. At least he looks just as uncomfortable as Gavin feels. “Well, I guess that’s-" he starts to say, but Hank talks over him.

“If he had such control over it, would you say it’s possible this wasn't the first time he’s had ‘ _difficult customers_?’ ” Gavin can practically hear the finger quotes even if Hank’s hands aren't moving. “How long has he worked for you, one and a half years? Two years? You have to admit, working in such establishments tend to bring the wrong sort of attention.”

Elijah’s voice is cold when he asks, “ _What_ precisely are you asking, Lieutenant?”

“I've seen pictures and heard people talk about him.” Hank raises an eyebrow, apparently unaware of the tension in the room. Or else not caring about it. “He’s a good-looking kid. At his age, with those looks, in that kind of business… isn't it possible he has, how you say, ‘entangled’ with someone before?”

That tranquility is never a good thing, Gavin thinks as his eyes fly between Hank and Elijah. The way Elijah is looking now—tense and blank-faced—reminds him of a snake getting ready to attack. It’s not a comforting thought.

“There is absolutely no such possibility. You seem to mistake what sort of services my employees sell, Lieutenant. Connor danced and engaged in conversations, that's all.”

Hank shrugs. “I know, I know. But things can always happen behind closed doors that maybe the boss doesn't officially know about, you get me? I refuse to believe he didn't regularly get offers, and considering the clients your club gets, they would offer lots of money for something more than a simple dance. Can you honestly say none of your people have ever accepted such a deal? And just look at Connor’s situation here: deceased parents, deceased brother, caring for himself since he was eighteen. Before he got a job at your club he’d been racking up student loans, like everyone else. A couple scholarships, but far from enough to cover the whole cost, since the deaths and subsequent funerals of his family had left him with nothing but debts he’s also still paying off. Would it really be so farfetched for him to accept a chance at a large sum of money to get rid of that? Maybe this stalker is simply a client who got obsessed after having a taste?”

Gavin almost flinches at the sound of a chair clattering to the floor, but instead he springs to his feet, ready to get in between the two. Elijah slams his hands on the table, looking like he’s about to lunge over the table and attack Hank. But he only leans forward with barely contained anger. “You don’t know _anything_ . Connor has never been in a relationship, before or after we got to know each other, and I know he’s never had sex with someone after we became friends. I've lived my whole life in _that business_ ,” he says with a sneer, “so I have an eye for such things. He would never do anything to encourage any behavior that goes against the safety rules, and fuck you for claiming he would. _Fuck you_.”

Gavin makes a face at the sound of the door slamming shut as Elijah storms out, but he doesn't go after him. Clearing his throat, he looks down at Hank. “Was that really necessary?”

Hank groans and rubs his face. “One of us had to do it, and since you obviously weren't about to, I had to. Fuck, I hate playing the bad cop. Especially for a good kid like this. Felt too damn wrong saying all that.”

“Yeah, didn't feel too great listening to it either, I’ll tell you. If Eli had taken a swing at you I might’ve been too slow to stop him.” Gavin snorts at the look Hank gives him, but sobers again as he pushes his hands into his pockets. “I could’ve told you those things, though. I know there’s no way that annoying little shit would have broken the work rules.”

Hank shakes his head and looks up at the ceiling. “You're not as close to him as your brother is, from what I understand, and you don't actually work there—you can't know exactly what goes on. As the owner, Kamski definitely does, and as for his ability to accurately assess whether, uh, you know… I believe in that, too. And now we know for sure that there aren’t any hidden affairs or other shit like that.”

Gavin sighs heavily, though it doesn't make him feel any better, and he scowls at Hank, wanting to grab his shoulders and shake him to make the old man spit out whatever it is that he’s thinking of. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

Hank hesitates, clearly unwilling to talk, but then he grimaces. “You heard it, didn't you? ‘No relationships before or after.’ I don't think Connor would lie to a close friend about that, not from what I’ve gathered about the kid. And he doesn't seem like the type who goes to bed with someone without being in at least some kind of relationship.”

Gavin’s mind seems to almost physically freeze as he does his best not to follow the train of thought Hank started him on.

It doesn't really matter, since Hank continues to talk.

“And now he’s been kidnapped by a man obsessed with a romance he’s dreamed up in his sick mind. He was never shy about writing down all his fantasies on what he wanted to do with Connor; who’s to say what he will or won't do now that he actually has him, physically.”

The two of them are silent for a moment, letting Hank’s words settle in the suffocating air. Gavin feels sick again. His hands are shaking, he’s itching for a punching bag or a criminal he can ‘accidentally’ be too rough with. Anything so he can distract himself from the sickening feeling in his stomach.

“Anyway.” Hank clears his throat and looks up at Gavin with a raised eyebrow. “What’re you still doing here? Your brother’s gonna storm out of the building unless you get your act together already. Bah, didn't think I would need to tell you.”

“Huh?”

“Seriously? Do I have to spell it all out for you? Go calm your brother down, moron, he’s important to the case. And I guess you want to make sure he’s not upset too. So get going already. Geez, one could think you're the old man here, not me.”

Gavin only responds with a scowl and a raised finger, but he does feel sheepish as he quickly leaves the room. Of course he shouldn't have needed Hank to tell him what to do. It’s _his_ little brother, not Hank’s.

Fuck, what if Elijah’s already left the building? Gavin should’ve been faster; he shouldn't have just stood there. He shouldn't have taken the time to have a fucking _conversation_ , he should’ve just hurried after his brother. Not only could he say not a single damn word, he just stood there uselessly and watched as Elijah was, for the lack of a better fucking word, attacked. Brother of the fucking year award, definitely.

“Hey.”

Part of him shrieks like a little kid when something grabs his arm. The rest of him registers Elijah’s voice and avoids punching him in the face. Just barely. “ _You fu_ -”

“Ah-ah-ah, be professional,” Elijah tuts, looking way too amused as Gavin works his mouth silently. At least he doesn't look like he wants to rip someone’s head off anymore; that's a clear improvement, no matter what Gavin’s furiously beating heart might say.

“You- you didn't storm off.”

“Of course not,” Elijah says, rolling his eyes. “I'm not a child throwing a tantrum. I might have needed a little time to clear my head, but we’re not done here.”

Gavin clears his throat and looks around. The hallway is mostly empty, with just a few people passing through. Just as good a place as any to have a conversation, brother to brother. Or some shit like that, god, he doesn't know. Leaning against the wall, he chews on his lip. “So, about what happened in there. Hank, uh, he didn't actually mean what he said, you know? Just, he needed to put the pressure on because-"

“Gavin. I am fully aware of what happened.” Elijah really has such a punchable face sometimes. Gavin almost forgot about that. But then his brother starts smirking and using that tone of voice, and all Gavin can see is his fist hitting Elijah’s face. “It’s not the first time I’ve been questioned by the police. I know how it works. However, it is the first time that I have been emotionally unstable enough to actually lose control of myself. It’s certainly quite embarrassing, now that I've calmed down. But I'm sure the lieutenant understands. It couldn't have been pleasant for him, either.”

“You know,” Gavin says slowly. What the hell. If he knew, why did he get so damn upset? Gavin was actually worried, damn it.

Elijah nods and, right, there’s that fucking smirk. “There’s the good and the bad cop, and all that nonsense, and that part? Was definitely a moment of forced bad cop. I can only imagine you’re the one usually in that role; it seems to suit you far better than it does the lieutenant.”

“Fuck you,” Gavin says without much feeling. He’s right, and they both know that.

“Gavin…” Elijah deflates again, and it doesn't matter how often that’s happened the last couple days, it hurts just as badly as the first time Gavin saw it. Elijah isn't supposed to look like this, damn it; isn’t supposed to look tired and defeated. He can't even keep up a mask of indifference or arrogance, which are Elijah’s most common expressions, in the same way that Gavin's is a scowl. “How’s the investigation going? Tell me the truth.”

Gavin sighs and crosses his arms. He probably shouldn't, but. “It isn’t going anywhere at all right now. That's why we called you in again, hoping you might have some details you’d forgotten yesterday.”

“What about the sperm? Anything on the items I turned in?”

Elijah might manage to keep the desperation from his voice, but Gavin can still see it in his eyes. He shakes his head. “We have the lab running the DNA samples, but it’s gonna take time. Plus, there’s always the risk of that asshole not being in the register, if he’s this good at remaining unnoticed. And as for the letters and shit, it’s like you said in there—it’s clean. All of it.”

“What abou-"

“We’ve checked the alibis of all potential suspects we could identify. We’ve knocked on every door in the vicinity of the club. We've talked with everyone who worked yesterday—hell, we even contacted some of your regulars to ask whether they saw something. It all got us a big nothing. We’ve had our guys—good guys, with a damn good eye for details—go through all the security films you've given us. The assault and kidnapping was caught on film.

“But,” he adds quickly as he sees Elijah perk up, “it’s still parking lot cameras. The video is far from great, and the man definitely knew where the cameras were. He kept his face out of view the whole time, hidden under a damn cap. All we got was that he’s white, with short dark hair. That's it.”

Elijah curses under his breath. Gavin doesn't say anything, just waits until he’s done. “And you haven't gotten anywhere with other options? Those can't be the only things you've looked up, right?”

Gavin shakes his head. “No, it’s not. We didn't have enough people to send out for it, everyone was busy with this or that, so me and Anderson went out and asked around. Went to his apartment building, to the jujutsu club he frequents, to his college and to the campus library. You weren’t joking when you said he doesn't have any friends, huh? The only person people could remember seeing him with is you. Otherwise, he’s always by himself. Charming and easy to talk to, according to his teachers and the librarians, but prefers to be on his own. There may be people jealous of his abilities, at school and at that training club, but none of them would do more than occasionally talk shit, according to those we spoke with. I gotta say, the little shit is too agreeable with all sorts of people; it’s too damn hard to actually be mad at him.”

Elijah smiles, his eyes faraway. “You need to stop calling him ‘little.’ It just shows your inferiority complex.”

“Oh  fuck you, I don't have a complex, especially not about him!”

“You have always insisted on calling him ‘small’ or ‘little.’ All you're doing with that is pointing out the height difference between you.”

“I do not have a complex,” Gavin mutters with a scowl. Not a pout. A scowl. Elijah smirks at him, silent, and Gavin can’t do anything but glare. Anything else would begin a challenge Gavin knows he can't win; he’s never won in any verbal fights with Elijah, and no matter how badly he wants to he can't imagine the day when he will ever arriving. His only comfort is that he can at least shove him face down onto the ground if he gets too annoying.

“I know the statistics.” Gavin looks at Elijah sharply, but he’s staring straight ahead, finding the opposite wall mysteriously fascinating. “The first 48 hours are crucial in kidnapping cases. True, it seems to mostly be about children, but I suspect it’s roughly the same estimate with adults.”

“Yeah.”

“You have… there are no leads, are there? At all?”

“No.” The word is ash in his mouth, but he owes Elijah the truth. “We hoped- we will continue to look, but right now we have nothing. We don't even know where or what or who to look for.”

“Whom,” Elijah corrects, barely audible. Gavin wants to shake him.

So he does, takes a step in front of Elijah, grabs his shoulders, and gives him a good shake. The incredulity on his face is a way, way better look. Plus, it’s pretty funny, if Gavin’s being honest.

“I don’t care about those stupid statistics. This work isn't about statistics; it’s about people, and when it’s about people, nothing is ever certain. Connor is _smart_ —annoying as fuck, but just as smart. He’ll figure out how to survive, and I won't stop looking until I find him.”

There’s a small smile on Elijah’s face, but it’s not a smirk, so Gavin will allow it. “Police work is in big part all about statistics. Facts and conclusions, and using statistics to get to those conclusions.”

Gavin makes a face. “I don’t do math, you know that. People aren't statistics, let's just stick with that, okay? I don't care if people’ll call it a fucking miracle, you don't give up until the case is over with, and you’ve found everything there is to find. Listen, Eli. I _will_ find Connor. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Okay, I trust you.”

Strangely enough, Gavin’s feeling this weird sense of having just been in a similar situation—what's that called? Deva du? Ju? Déjà vu, that’s it. “Good, good. Now go away. Go back to Chloe or something. I’ve got work to do.”

  


-

  


Somehow, Connor manages to drift away, his thoughts wander far and wide, chased by the sound of Jared’s voice and the need to escape the situation he was in. He isn't aware of it, though, not until a sudden noise brings him back to reality. Looking around with wide eyes, he only spots Jared grinning at him, _Markus_ ’ book closed in his hands.

“It always feels so much better to end a reading session this way, don’t you think? It feels more final, in a way.”

So he’s done. Connor wonders how long he’d been reading; the windows are covered by heavy curtains and don't let any natural light through.  There also isn't a clock anywhere, making it impossible to get a clear idea of time. He has only his own intuition and senses to rely on, and he doesn't even know what day it is. There are gaps in his memories; he feels like he’s been in this room for an eternity, trapped, captured, imprisoned. He drifts in and out of consciousness, with the knowledge of where he is and what is happening coming and going as well. It’s so hard to focus, to think and try to plan, when he can barely keep one thought in his head for longer than a minute.

Jared stands up and goes over to put the book back on the bookshelf. He passes by a small table with a chess board on top, and Connor forgets about him as he stares. Chess. What in the world is this, why would there be a _chess board_ of all things? The urge to laugh bubbles up in Connor’s chest. Bookcases, book after book, fancy armchairs, chess boards. What is this, someone’s fantasy of an intelligent person’s bedroom?

He can't get rid of the idea. This is Jared’s room, the chamber he furnished. This is where he wanted to keep Connor. He keeps talking about brilliance, cleverness, he said he had read Plato, he wants to have _discussions_ and _engaging_ _conversations_. And this is the fantasy he wants to do it in.

Connor giggles, doesn't even try to raise his hand to cover his mouth. If he really wanted to play such a _stimulating_ roleplay, shouldn't he have put in a fireplace? How can you be playing an intelligent person if you can't sit in armchairs in front of a living fire, drinking wine or whiskey and smoking a cigar? In a three-piece suit, with one of those ridiculous moustaches. And a pocket watch—one cannot be intelligent without a pocket watch to take out and watch every so often.

Markus would look incredible in a three-piece suit. Connor smiles at the image, wishes he could somehow get Markus to wear it. Wishes he was in a sort of relationship where he could just suggest it with a smile, or come home having bought a suit out of the blue one day. He can imagine the smile on Markus’ face, the love in his eyes as he pulls Connor close, and Connor would let him, easily going closer and leaning his head up just a little bit, and Markus would lean down and Connor would close his eyes, already anticipating the feeling of Markus’ lips on his, already feeling the warmth-

“Would you care to share your thoughts? I would give anything to know what makes you smile to brilliantly.”

The fantasy falls and Connor opens his eyes with a gasp. He hadn't noticed closing them. He hadn't noticed Jared coming back, sinking down on the edge of the bed. He’s smiling, but it’s _wrong_ , the love in his eyes is nothing like Markus’. _He’s_ not Markus, and it almost brings tears to Connor’s eyes as he realizes.

He closes his eyes, doesn't try to say anything. All he wants is to be left alone. Now that he has had to withstand Jared’s presence for—he doesn't know for how long—can't he go away?

“Oh. Well, never mind. I'm not surprised that you're feeling a little mulish, it’s getting pretty late, isn't it? Not to worry, I will arrange something to eat. It’s so great, how you can eat anything. You're nothing like so many others, so damn picky, always refusing this or that because _they don’t like it_ ,” Jared says in a mocking tone, then quickly adds with wide eyes, “Ah, but don’t worry, I know about your problems with spicy food. That's not something you can help, and I know you would eat without complaining if it was served to you. It’s such a small, but still such an admirable quality. Especially in today’s society.”

It doesn't seem like he will go away, no matter how hard Connor wishes for it. He turns out Jared’s voice as he keeps talking, focuses as best he can on simply breathing, on staying in the now. The dark behind his eyes is calming, he can imagine he sees so much in it. There are spheres and shapes and forms, and faces, and stars, if he just focuses.

It’s hard to focus when he feels his hand being taken and raised, caressed, but he does his best. Jared never goes long without touching him, and despite the way it makes his skin crawl he is almost getting used to it. He can endure now, instead of desperately trying to make his body move away, get away from Jared, make the contact disappear.

“I sent an order for Italian, I'm sure you will like it. It's a place I visit frequently, but they do takeout as well, thankfully. This way you can experience them as well. I ordered one of my favorite dishes for you. It will be so exciting to find out what you think! I mean, I already know you will like it, but I look forward to finding out your exact thoughts. You are far more awake tonight, so you will be able to actually eat today.”

A flash of a memory passes by, a spoon pressed against his unresponsive lips, Jared sighing in frustration while Connor stares into thin air. A hand grabbing his mouth and opening it. When the soup is poured into his mouth Connor swallows, barely there but still aware enough to go through the motions.

The hand holding his chin makes Connor confused whether it’s still a memory or not, so he opens his eyes, sees Jared looking thoughtfully at him. Not a memory. Just as nauseating.

“You will probably have issues actually feeding yourself, however. You're still so weak, after all. But that's alright, that's fine. I'm here, I'll take care if you in every way you need me to. I'll cut the meat and hold the plate and cutlery for you. It's no hardship for me, since I'm doing it for you. I've told you, haven't I? I would do anything for you. And I will, I swear.”

Connor tries turning his face away, closing his eyes. To his surprise, Jared lets him, making a thoughtful noise.

“The delivery will come in about forty minutes, so why don't we make something useful of this time? What do you think about a bath? I think that would be nice for you, relaxing and all. And you will receive something like a spa experience, won't you, to have someone do it all and take care of you?”

Jared chuckles, and with ice in his stomach Connor is starting to actually understand what he’s talking about. His heart is beating loudly in his ears when the covers is pulled down—he’s not dressed in his own clothes, he doesn't own any silk pajamas, Jared must have dressed him when he was unconscious, he feels _sick_ at the thought—and he shakes his head. It doesn't do anything to deter Jared as he leans down and _undresses him_. Connor squeezes his eyes shut, the humiliation is bile in his throat, the frustration is tears in his eyes, the disgust is his body shaking with the effort to keep still when all he wants to do is struggle and scream and fight. It’s quick, though it feels torturously slow, and Jared picks Connor up with a grunt, one hand under his legs and one behind his back. Connor doesn't have enough control of his limbs to do anything but press weakly, too damn weak, at Jared’s chest. At least he manages to keep his head up, not lean it against Jared’s shoulder.

Jared sighs as he walks to one of the two closed doors, not the one he had entered through before, frowning down at Connor. “Connor, I understand that it can be embarrassing, as a grown man, to have someone else bathe you, but please stop struggling. You can't move well by yourself, so I wouldn't dare leave you in the bathtub by yourself; what if you hurt yourself? Besides, this is not a chore for me. I can only consider it an honor to assist you, no matter in what capacity. It’s a way for me to show my love for you, I know I have told you that. I know it might feel strange at first, but I will only touch you to clean you, nothing else. So just relax and enjoy it, okay?”

Enjoy. _How_ is he supposed to _enjoy_ it? He doesn't want it, he doesn't want any of it, he doesn't want to feel any touches on his skin, he doesn't want to hear _that_ voice croon sweet assurances as he’s lowered into a too cold bathtub, immediately apologizing when he gasps. He presses his hands against the bottom, tries to make his legs, his body, work, tries to push up and away, but what little strength he’s gathered washes away as the water starts filling the tub and his hands slip. It’s cold at first, and Jared keeps apologizing for it, but it soon turns warmer.

Connor tries to sink down into it fully when the water level gets high enough, managing to have his head underwater for a probably half a minute before Jared’s fumbling hands finally succeed in pulling him up again. He coughs and spits while Jared caresses him, all the apologies and scolding washing over Connor without him hearing the words. There is water on his face, he keeps coughing and sniffling as Jared starts touching him, his hair, his shoulders and arms, his chest, his back, everywhere. There is water on his face. No one can tell what is salty and what isn't.


	8. Chapter 8

Day 3, 6:26PM.

It feels like he’s floating, lying on a cloud up in the sky, free and at ease. It’s good, nice and soft, and Markus smiles. There is light calling to him, but it won't mind if he just dazes a little bit longer, would it? He’s still sleepy, after all. Just a little longer.

He moves his arm to snuggle on his side, but- there’s something weird. His whole arm is numb, like it’s not there, and Markus opens his eyes with a pout. Why is his own body trying to wake him from that comfortable cloud?

His arm is in a brace, and he frowns, slowly reaching out to poke it.

“Markus! Markus, you're awake!”

Markus forgets about his unresponsive arm and turns with a wide smile. “Dad!” Then his smile wavers, and he hesitates when he sees tears in Carl’s eyes. “Dad?”

Carl wheels closer—as close as he can get with his wheelchair—and reaches up, pulling Markus into a tight hug. Markus smiles and returns the hug. It’s nice, warm and loving.

“It’s- it’s really good to see you awake, son.” Carl wipes his eyes as he offers a tearful smile. “Leo’s here, too; he’s just getting food right now. We've been worried about you. How are you feeling?”

Markus gasps when he hears Leo’s name. He feels his eyes fill with tears. “Leo? Worried about me? Really? I never thought that could happen, he’s always been…”

Carl chuckles. “Yeah, I know. And he’ll definitely deny it if you try to say anything about it, but he’s been watching over you just as tirelessly as I have. You _are_ brothers, after all. He just has trouble admitting it.”

The two smile at each other for a moment before Carl’s smile softens and he pats Markus’ hand, repeating his question about Markus’ well being. Markus takes a deep breath and leans back, purses his lips as he stares up at the white ceiling.

“I feel… good? Everything is so- so nice. I feel like I can do anything, Dad.”

“That’s good. You're not in any pain, are you?” Markus shakes his head, and Carl sighs in relief. “That's comforting to know. Now, just wait a second while I make a phone call, will you? It’ll be quick, I promise.”

Markus smiles and nods, letting his eyes and attention drift as Carl gets out his phone. He’s in a nice, cozy room, with a television and a big mirror and many chairs. At the side of his bed there’s a table, overflowing with bouquets, a couple of teddy bears, a half-eaten box of chocolate, and many cards. By squinting he can read the well wishes on those closest to him, and his eyes fill with tears again. God, that people can be so amazing, so sweet and kind and caring and wonderful. He wants to hug each and every one of them, tell them how much he appreciates them.

He wonders if Connor has sent a card. He really hopes so—it would be such a great excuse to finally get to hug him. Markus has been dreaming about that for so, so long. Hugging, and kissing, and holding hands, and dancing, and kissing, and cuddling, and kissing. Every time Connor looks at him, Markus wants to just throw away everything he’s doing and take Connor in his arms, hold him close and feel his heart beat against his chest. And when he smiles, Markus’ brain short circuits, and he can barely press down the impulse to _kiss him kiss him kiss him_.

He can't do such things, not when he’s never even told Connor how he feels. For all Connor knows, Markus is just being friendly, and for all Markus knows, Connor just sees him as a good friend. After all, what would Connor—amazing, brilliant, thoughtful, beautiful Connor—see in a struggling artist who has to work two jobs just to support himself?

How can he ever dare confess to Connor, who has such a bright future ahead of him? He’d just be holding Connor back—if Connor actually accepts his feelings.

“Now, what kind of thoughts are causing such a long face?”

Markus looks at Carl and sniffles. “I can’t tell Connor I love him. What if he rejects me? Or what if he says he likes me back? I'll just be holding him back, Dad. Nothing good comes from being with me. I have nothing to give, but Connor- Connor will do so much, he’ll invent things that will revolutionize the medical industry, I just know it. He can't do that while dragging a useless painter along!”

Carl’s eyes widen and he looks like he doesn't know whether he should be concerned or amused. “Markus, son… how about we talk about that when you're off the painkillers?”

Sniffling again, Markus nods, and Carl smiles crookedly as he squeezes Markus’ hand.

“Now, I've talked with the police officer in charge of this investigation. He said he’ll be here in a few minutes—I sure hope he doesn't break any traffic laws on his way. Until then, why don't I tell you about what’s been going on while you were unconscious? It’s been almost three days, after all.”

Markus gasps at the revelation and listens with single minded focus as Carl tells him about the visits from his friends, from his colleagues, from Elijah even. He laughs along at the story about North snapping and putting Leo in a headlock, about how that sweet girl Traci managed to make Josh blush within two minutes of conversation. He smiles at Carl clearly being charmed by his colleagues from the club, and his chest fills with warmth at the concern he can feel from Carl’s stories. He is so grateful to all of them, so full of love that he can’t contain. Unable to hold back, and not seeing a reason to, he tells Carl all about it, tells him how amazing they all are, and when he starts crying—still trying to explain just how much he loves them—Carl chuckles and agrees that they’re all good, kind people, and Markus should definitely feel lucky to know all of them.

He’s in the middle of agreeing when there’s there’s a knock on the open door. A man stands in the doorway, older and grey-haired, but not as old as Carl. Markus has absolutely no idea who he is.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Carl greets the newcomer, and Markus nods along. A police officer. Yeah. Yeah, he can see that, now that he knows it. The man might not dress like how one thinks a police officer would dress, but he has a look on his face, as though he knows all too well about human suffering.

“Good day, Mr. Manfred. Markus, it’s good to see you awake.”

The man looks tired, and for a moment Markus thinks of offering to swap places so he can get some sleep. But it's probably not a good idea—he’s not sure he knows how to move his legs at the moment. Funny, that.

“Markus, this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson. He’s one of the officers in charge of investigating what happened to you.” Carl hesitates and looks at Hank. “Are you sure this has to be done now? He just woke up, and he is certainly affected by the morphine he’s been given. I don't know if he can be of any help to you right now.”

Hank sighs and looks at Markus. “We need to try it. Right now, we’re scrambling to try and find anything… so anything you can tell us, Markus, anything at all, would be damn helpful.”

Markus isn't really sure what they're talking about, but he is pretty sure it has something to do with why he’s in the hospital. He feels good, doesn't think he’s as high as Carl said he is. “I'm okay with that. I’d like to help you in any way I can, if possible.”

“I definitely hope you can, kiddo.” Hank sits down in one of the chairs, and leans forward. “Now tell me, what do you remember about the last day before you were attacked? You were working.”

Markus nods, looks up at the ceiling. He can almost see the bar disk in front of him. And Connor, beautiful Connor. The dance that drove Markus half out of his mind. “Yes. Everything was going as it usually did, but it was so annoying because all I wanted was for the day to end and for my shift to be over. I just wanted to be with Connor, take him home to my apartment. I was going to show him my latest painting. I'm actually pretty satisfied with it, so North told me that I should invite Connor over and ask him to take a look at it himself. And she’s a real bully sometimes, you know that, Carl, so I promised her I would. And I did! And he said yes! So we were going to go to my place and I’d show him my art, and he might’ve even slept over.”

The lieutenant glances at Carl but nods dutifully and scribbles something down in his notebook. “Right. Now, walk me through the end of the night. Connor had finished up at the poles, so he’d gone to the bar and was chatting with you. What happened next?”

Markus blinks, then feels himself flush. It was about the dance. Could the man have actually read his thoughts? No, that can’t be, people can’t do that. “Um, yes, that's correct. There was a boy who asked him for a dance, but it was for his friend who was too shy to ask himself. It was clear they were first-timers; they were so timid and uncertain. Connor absolutely loves that type—thinks they're so cute—so he agreed, of course. Said one dance would cost twenty dollars. Twenty dollars! This club isn't just any strip joint, it’s high-quality, and you’d barely catch anyone’s attention with a twenty. Connor said it was a discount, can you believe it? He’s just too nice sometimes, it drives me up the wall, and I love it so much. If they hadn't had a twenty I'm sure he would’ve done it for less, or for free even.”

“Uh, right. Markus, I need you to focus now. Can you remember anything about these two people? Do you remember what happened during the dance, or if anything happened immediately afterwards?”

Oh yes, he remembers the dance, very clearly. He can't look the lieutenant in the eyes, staring down at his hands, instead. But the man asked him something and Markus tries to remember. Too bad he’s finding that he can only remember Connor and how he moved, his eyes as they met his, his smile, _everything_ . “I… they were young, both of them. I don't think they were older than twenty? Twenty-one or twenty-two at most? I _think_ I remember one of them buying drinks, but I could be mistaken. If he did, he paid with cash. Other than that, no, I don't remember anything out of the ordinary.” Not that he would have noticed since all he could focus on was Connor. “Connor and I talked a bit, then he decided to end his shift early. I had to stay, though, until Jerry told me to go. Uh, I think that was about half past two? Or quarter past, I'm not sure.”

Hank nods. “That fits the timeline we have. Now, you got released early.”

“Yes. Connor was finished by then. Kara told me—she’s one of our security guards—she told me he had gone outside to wait, hoping the night air might wake him up a bit. Apparently he was feeling tired. And he definitely was, I saw that almost immediately when I went out myself.”

“So, you walked out to the parking lot after Connor. Did you see anyone else there?”

Markus slowly shakes his head. All he could remember was seeing Connor yawn, how incredibly endearing the sight was. And how nervous he suddenly was, that Connor might prefer to go home instead, because he was feeling too tired. “No, I don't think so. Not anyone that I noticed, at least.”

“And you didn't hear anything, didn't smell anything?”

Again, Markus shakes his head. Nothing except for Connor’s shampoo, which had drifted over to him. It was a scent Markus has grown to love, earthy but clean, like roaming through a forest after it’s rained. It always makes him imagine walking with Connor, taking trips and exploring nature, hand in hand.

“Oh, okay… uh, that's good to know, that you didn't notice any signs of anyone else. At the parking lot.”

Markus blinks and looks at Hank’s grimace, then glances at Carl and sees him holding a thin hand over his face—but it doesn’t completely hide his smile. Damn it. He’d been talking out loud, hadn’t he?

“Let’s get back to you and Connor. You met up in the parking lot, he looked tired.” Hank seems eager to move on, and Markus gratefully seizes the opportunity.

“Right. I asked if he really wanted to come over, and he was very adamant about it. He likes his routines, see, and if he’s made plans he always sticks to them, doesn't like to have to change. Which is strange, because when it comes to people he can change and adapt to any situation; I’ve seen it, several times. But, anyway, since he still wanted to go, I offered for him to spend the night at my apartment. I have a couch that’s very comfortable, see, and no one I've had over has ever complained about it. But I would have let him have my bed, while I slept on the couch, if he had problems with it—it wouldn’t have been an issue for me. He said the couch was good. Then we walked to his car.”

Markus stops, a feeling of unease slithering into his mind.

“No. No, wait. We didn't. He turned around and started to to walk, but his legs gave out and he fell to the ground instead. It was so strange, now that I think about it. If there’s one thing Connor has always had it’s grace and balance. I don't know how he… he looked scared.”

Hank is silent for a moment, frowning down at his notes. Then, he looks up at Markus. “Do you remember what happened next? Did Connor say or do something? Is that when you were attacked or did it happen later?”

Markus remembers—it all comes in quick flashes—and he grips the blanket, heart racing. “He did say- he told me to call Elijah. Wait, no- he didn't have time to say it, but I think that's what he was going to say. But he- he froze, for a moment, and then he shouted my name. And then- I turned around, because he wasn't looking at me, he was looking at something behind me. That's when it hit me.”

“What hit you, Markus?”

“I'm not- sure. I think it was a bat of some kind? It looked like one, but I only caught a glimpse of it.”

“What about the person holding the bat, did you see him?”

Markus remembers pain and fear, and raising his hand when he saw the boot coming down on him. He’s breathing harder now, he knows that, but he can't seem to stop it. “A hat. He was white. He had dark clothes, a jacket I think. I don't- he had boots. Heavy ones, with thick soles. I- I think he was- I think he was young? Not _young_ young, but maybe, maybe our ages? Mine and Connor’s. Older twenties, younger thirties? I think?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, calm down, focus on breathing.” Hank waits until Markus’ breathing slows down. “Think back. What do you remember more about the hat? What type of hat was it? A cap, a beanie, something else?”

“It- I'm pretty sure it was a cap. It hid his face.”

“Okay. Can you remember what color it was? Was there a logo on it?”

Markus scrunches his eyes shut and thinks back, tries to remember. “It was dark. It could have been black, but could also have been some other color. I think there was a logo on it, yes, but I- I can't remember.”

“That’s okay, son. You're doing your best. Was it a big logo, think you can remember that?” Hank only nods when Markus shakes his head, making frustrated noises. “Okay, what about his boots. Think back on them. Do you remember what kind they were? Was it work boots, dress boots, hiking boots? Can you remember the color?”

Markus takes a deep breath and thinks. “They were sturdy. Wide. I think they were work or hiking boots, or something like that? Something you wear when you're going to be doing work. I think,” he adds hesitantly, making a face at his hands. What is he even talking about? He only saw the guy for a moment, he doesn't actually remember anything. “It was all dark. I don't know, I didn't actually see the boots, I only got a good look of the soles of them; they were patterned, but I- I don't know. Like boots?”

Hank’s smile is sympathetic, but it’s Carl’s hand on his that lets Markus calm down, just a little, push through the frustration building up.

“Any detail you can give us is good, Markus. Remember that. Even if you yourself think it’s nothing it might end up being something important,” Hank says. Markus nods slowly. “Now, is there anything else you remember?”

“He- I didn't pass out immediately when the- the bat, or whatever it was, hit me. It hit my shoulder. I remember… I remember him kicking me, kicking at my head. I tried to block it with my arm. Then- I don't…. I don't remember any more.”

“That's okay, that's good. Now we know how it all went down, which is good. And we have more details about the perpetrator. Any details are good.”

Markus nods, though he feels doubtful. He didn’t give the lieutenant anything, not really. He couldn't remember anything about the man’s face, has only a very vague idea of what he looks like. Connor would surely be able to give a more detailed account, he had to have gotten a better look.

Wait. Connor. No one has mentioned him, neither Carl nor the lieutenant, not since Markus woke up. Only when they asked about what Markus remembered.

He’s cold, his whole body numb. His voice is shaking when he asks, “What about Connor? Is he- is he okay?”

He looks at both the lieutenant and Carl, but both are hesitating. There is a hand squeezing his heart, and Markus is finding it hard to breathe. He tries to keep his panic at bay, tries to keep his voice down. “What happened? _Where is Connor_?”

 

-

 

D̴a̶y̵ ̵2̵?̷ ̷O̵r̶ ̷i̵s̴ ̵i̶t̵ ̷3̸?̷ ̶O̵r̸ ̵m̶o̶r̶e̶?

The sight of Jared fills Connor with even more dread and disgust than before. He remembers, all too clearly, what happened the day before—it has to have been a day, it _feels_ like a new day now, but he can't know for sure. It’s hard to act like nothing's wrong when every single part of his body and mind are yelling at him to _get away_.

But he can't. He knows he can't. He’s tried—he tested pushing himself up to sit at first.

He didn't manage.

So he swallows down the bile rising in his throat, and closes his eyes as Jared sits down, setting the tray with food and water on the nightstand. He focuses on books, going through his mental list of books to read. Maybe he can try reordering them, see if some of them have caught his attention more than before and should be moved to a more suitable position.

But Jared’s voice breaks his concentration. There is no ignoring it. “I got you one of your favorite dishes—steak. Medium rare, of course, I know you think it’s too dry otherwise. I thought I’d make it a little extra today because you’re doing so, so well, Connor. We had a little trouble with the bath yesterday, and the food, but all in all I can see clear progress. You only needed that extra sedative on the first day, do you remember? You've come a long way from that. I actually think we can try stopping with the drugs, see how that goes. What do you think about that? Haha, of course you want that, why am I even asking? I can imagine how hard it must have been, but you've been doing so well. I'm proud of you.”

The words hold no meaning to him; he feels nothing but contempt for every sound coming out of that damn mouth—but, the promise of relief. If he doesn't mess up, if he keeps calm, he’ll be able to get rid of the haze that constantly floods his mind. He’ll be rid of the weakness that weighs down his body and makes it impossible for him to do anything. He just needs to stay calm.

Jared takes a plate filled with steak and potatoes and places it on his knees. Connor’s stomach churns even before Jared starts cutting the meat into small pieces. He hates it, how Jared insists on feeding him, almost more than everything else Jared has done to him. To have to be fed with a spoon and have everything cut into pieces small enough for a toddler to eat—it’s humiliating, made even worse by the gentleness with which it’s done.

“It feels strange to say that I'm proud of someone,” Jared says as he works. He doesn't look at Connor, keeps his eyes on the plate. “I haven't talked much about my family, have I? It’s not that I've tried to keep it all a secret from you, I promise, it’s just that… well, unlike your parents, mine weren't exactly—how shall I put it—the type to win parents of the year awards. Though they still demanded I keep bringing home any and all awards I could possibly win.”

Jared sighs and frowns down at the plate, and Connor wonders for a moment if he’s supposed to try and give him an answer, some sort of reassurance. Jared probably expects him to, wants him to.

There is nothing Connor would like to do less right now, so he simply stares at him in silence until Jared clears his throat. With a violent jerk that makes Connor flinch, Jared stabs the fork into a piece of meat and looks up at Connor. He smiles, but the expression is as fake as any affection he thinks he sees in Connor’s face or behavior.

“It’s an old tale, isn't it? Demanding parents, with the child trying to do everything to satisfy them. I'm an only child, unlike you. I never had anyone to share everything with.”

While he talks, Jared moves the fork closer to Connor, who for a moment, considers refusing to play the game, before remembering. He needs to be calm, pretend, play along. Still, opening his mouth is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. The meat, probably superbly prepared and cooked, feels and tastes like a muddy sponge, and the more he chews, the bigger it seems to get in his mouth. He manages, just barely, to swallow it at long last, and it sinks to the bottom of his stomach like a stone. A fantasy starts playing out in his mind—the piece of steak gets stuck in his throat and he chokes to death. He longs for it more than he can put into words, especially when he sees Jared stick the fork into another piece.

“I- I admit, for a short while I was jealous. Of you, of your relationships with your parents, of Aidan. Then I realized how cruel I was, to feel like that. I never had a brother, but I also never had to deal with losing him.” Jared looks at Connor with a furrowed brow, his face pinched in sympathy. Connor wants to spit the food at him. “But isn't that it? You had a loving family but lost it, and I- well, I’ll love you until the day we die. I can't replace those you've lost, but I will strive to make sure you never feel lonely or unloved. I’ll always be by your side, because I love you so much. You are my family now, and I am yours.”

Connor isn't certain if he should feel relieved or curse that he had managed to swallow the food, because at Jared’s last words, he feels everything in his stomach threaten to come right back up. His hands are shaking, so he presses them into his lap, as hard as he can. He forces his eyes to only blink quickly, because he if closes his eyes he’ll see nothing but _them_ , his actual family. His parents, from the last photos he has of them. Aidan, of whom he has no pictures. He couldn't keep any of them, not after the accident. It was enough that he was forced to see him every time he looked into the mirror, forced every time to remember.

Jared, of course, doesn't notice. “But I should tell you a little more, shouldn't I? As I said, I'm an only child. My parents were wealthy, but money doesn't mean anything if you're not keeping the family prosperous. I had the best education, as well as the expectations that came with such an expense. Then I went on to medical school, because while they weren't too thrilled about me not continuing in their footsteps, a doctor is respectable enough. Of course, the goal was for me to become a surgeon, then the chief of surgery, and eventually have a hospital of my own. Otherwise, it wouldn't be good enough. I knew the expectations they had, and I worked hard to meet them.

“And then they died. Just like that, out of the blue one day.” Jared goes silent for several seconds. “My life fell apart then. I suddenly had a company I didn't know how to run, a house full of family heirlooms and my parents’ ghosts, as well as school. I continued on, worked as hard as I could, because I didn't know what else to do. Then, one day when I was near collapse, you showed up. You saved me.”

Connor isn't prepared for the blinding smile directed his way, nor for the adoration in Jared’s eyes. It scares him, rolls over him and suffocates him. He doesn't know what the man’s talking about, he has never met Jared before.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you giving me strength that day. You remember how weak I was, how desperate I was. Not many would have seen me, a complete stranger, but you- you sat down next to me. Told me about your own studies, how you had decided to change because you had realized you wanted to do something else. I remember what you said. ‘No decision is set in stone. If you don't feel happy with the direction you're going now, change it. No one can control your life but you.’ And you smiled at me, right before you had to run because you had a meeting. I couldn't get you out of my head. I, who had lost all purpose in life, had been given new ones. You _saved_ me.”

The flutter of panic in his chest makes Connor dizzy. The intensity of Jared’s voice, the worship on his face, the love in his eyes—it’s all too much, _too much_. Connor doesn't know what he’s talking about, he doesn't remember any of it. Had he really brought this upon himself? Thanks to an easily forgotten moment of impulsiveness where he decided to try and cheer up a stranger?

“I did as you said. I quit med school, sold the company and all my parents’ assets. I realized I didn't care about any of it, it meant nothing. But I had found something that did, something that meant everything to me. You. You had saved me, so I decided I would spend the rest of my life for you, and only you. And I knew you felt the same way—those small smiles and quick looks my way showed that you did, that you always noticed me. I wanted to reach out to you much earlier, I swear, but I wanted this all to be perfect. I'm sorry I made you wait too long. But- that was why I kept sending the letters, you know? So you wouldn't think I had forgotten about you, about us.”

Connor feels sick. All this time, all the nights he had been unable to sleep, all the times he had almost shut himself away, hidden himself from the world and whoever was slowly but surely poisoning every part of his life. All of it. Because of him. Because of one throwaway conversation.

Jared puts away the plate suddenly, stands up with a wide smile. “I have something for you, something I know you'll appreciate. It’s my greatest treasure, and- I'll show you. You just wait a second, okay?”

Connor stares emptily as Jared runs over to one of the bookcases and pulls out a thick book. He’s almost humming with excitement when he goes back to the bed, sits down right next to Connor up by the pillows. Connor can’t even make himself flinch away at the unwanted closeness, but he makes a soft noise at the back of his throat when Jared opens the book.

A photo. A family, a smiling man and woman, each with a baby in their arms. If one looks close, the babies are identical.

He knows that photo. He knows it too well. He can't breathe because he _knows it._

“This,” Jared says with a smile as he softly strokes the photo. The baby in the man’s arms. Connor knows who that is, too. “This is my biggest treasure. I worked a long time on it, ever since we first met each other. I always imagined when I would get to show it to you.”

Jared turns the page, and there are more pictures of the family. Especially of one of the babies, and Connor knows that, despite how easy it would be to mistake them, it is always the same baby. Jared takes time to show off each of the pictures, his voice so full of love as he talks. Connor has stopped listening, he can only stare in mute horror.

The baby becomes a toddler. Starts smiling, is soon smiling or laughing in almost every picture. There is one that Jared stops to talk about, where the two toddlers are sleeping curled up against a large dog that Connor knows is a French mastiff. He knows her name: Echo. At the back of his mind he can almost hear two shrill voices yelling the name in delight, while the big dog barks in excitement.

The toddler becomes a child, and now almost all of the pictures are of this one child. It’s still the same one, never the twin, Connor _knows._ Sometimes the boy is smiling, sometimes he’s sullenly glaring at the camera. Often he has small scrapes, band-aids here and there. He clearly has an active life. The brown hair reaches down past his ears. Connor remembers how it felt to cut it off.

The boy grows into a young teenager, and the smile becomes even rarer. The boy doesn’t seem to be aware of the photos being taken most times, staring off into the air or with his nose in a book of some kind. There is a two-page spread dedicated to some sort of school event, where the boy is running a race, his face set in determination. There is a photo of the starting line, of him and other boys running, of the boy passing the finish line several feet ahead of the others, of the boy on the ground surrounded by a grinning, identical boy who is high-fiving him and a worried man and woman. Behind them, behind the rest of the people keeping their distance, there is an ambulance.

A funeral. The two boys standing side by side, without their parents in sight. Connor’s heart squeezes painfully, and he tries not to think, does not remember, _will not_ remember.

The next pages show the twins together, at first somber and sad, but then smiling again. They are together in each photo, some have clearly been taken by one of them as they both grin at the camera. The only way to differentiate them are by their haircuts and the clothes they wear, as well as the different eye colors. Where one has brown eyes the other has blue. In every picture they are touching each other in some way, holding hands or sitting next to each other or standing shoulder to shoulder.

Connor can’t breathe. His body is numb, his chest is starting to hurt, but he _can’t._ He knows what’s coming next, and he can’t do anything to stop it.

His ears are ringing as he sees the greyscale photos. Dimly he hears sympathy enter Jared’s voice, but he can’t. He can’t. _He can’t._ There are the cars, demolished. There are people, lights. It’s taken from a newspaper, that’s clear by the quality. But it’s still possible to see the person being led away, a boy in his older teens, shock marring his bloodied face. He’s alone, his twin not by his side.

He never will be again. Connor knows.

There is the funeral. The boy has his arm in a cast and half-healed cuts on his face, but those are the only injuries he shows. There are three photos, taken from different points during the ceremony. His face is empty, his eyes dead, as he stares at the open grave.

Connor feels the old ache return, the emptiness, the question of why why why. Why him? Why now? Why not _me?_

“Connor? Oh. Oh, no, darling.” There are too many thoughts in his head, too many feelings paralyzing him, and Connor can’t make himself react when Jared puts down the album and hugs him. It only makes him cry harder. “Shh, it’s okay. Let it all out, it’s okay to cry. I'm here, I have you, it’s safe.”

Maybe this is karma. Maybe this is simply just what he brought down on himself, all those years ago. Heavenly retribution. He caused his brother’s death, so now he will suffer. He was the older brother, meant to protect Aidan and keep him safe, but instead his carelessness had led to an irreversible fate.

He doesn't deserve happiness. He doesn't deserve to be free and loved, when it should be Aidan enjoying life. He doesn't deserve to live.

“No, no no no, you're wrong. That's not true at all.”

Belatedly Connor realizes he had let the words out, past his lips, his shaking hands pressed against his face. Jared holds him closer, his very presence just making Connor even more sure that he’s being punished. Why else would he be forced to endure such a situation?

“You're wrong, Connor. I understand you're sad, but Aidan- Aidan wouldn't want you to think this way. He was always so concerned about you, always wanted the best for you. I know that he would want you to be able to look back on your time together with a smile, because you had each other and you were happy. He wouldn't want you to feel such guilt that you _want to stop living,_ just for him.”

Connor stiffens and stares right ahead, his head reeling. The tears are drying up, his breathing almost back to normal, but now he’s feeling an ugly darkness rising in his throat. How _dare_ he? How _dare_ he talk about Aidan like he has any idea what Aidan would want or think? _How dare he_ sully the one part of Connor’s life that hadn't already been tainted?

Connor had thought he knew hatred before. He was wrong.

“There you go.” Jared presses his lips against Connor’s hair and pulls back with a smile. “Sadness is only temporary. Life, love is what you need to remember. _That_ is what's important. It’s good to cry, but the tears will always stop, eventually. Now, are you ready to continue? We’re not done yet, see.”

Connor closes his eyes with a moan, shaking his head. Enough. He doesn't want it, whatever else is in that book, he doesn't want to know it. Isn't it enough already, isn't he satisfied dragging up Connor’s whole life?

“Connor, this is important to me.” Jared sounds _admonishing,_ as though he has the _right._ “I spend every day focused on you and your needs and what you might want. Now I have this one single thing I want you to look at, this is all I ask. You need to show that you can put aside residual feelings and focus on making your partner happy, too. That's the only way a relationship can survive and flourish. So, I will sit here until you open your eyes again.”

The thought of heavenly punishment crosses Connor’s mind again. He doesn't believe in some all-powerful, all-knowing figure, he never did before and definitely not after the accident. But the thought of someone choosing to punish him feels easier to take than all of this happening for no reason. He’s tired, he’s aching and angry and hurt. He wants it to end, all of it. He misses Aidan. He misses his parents and Echo and Aidan.

He opens his eyes.

“Good! See, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now, where were we? I couldn't find many pictures of you in the years after that awful, awful accident. You lived with a foster family, didn't you? After your parents died and then when Aidan disappeared, too? Just until you turned 18, then you moved out and dropped all contact with them. I understand, though it hurts me to know that you spent so many years all alone. If I only could, I would go back in time and meet you far earlier, so you wouldn't have to be alone.”

Connor lets Jared ramble on. It doesn't twist in his chest every time he hears Jared so carelessly bring up details of his life that no one should know, that Connor rarely talks with Elijah or Chloe about. He just feels numb, keeps waiting for everything to be over. The strongest feeling he can summon is a detached curiosity when Jared opens up the photo album again, a weak pondering about what emotions or memories will be dredged up now.

Most of the photos have been taken from facebook, Connor thinks. They are selfies or photos taken by a variety of people, all with him next to the person or in the background. A few are from various works he had after he started living on his own, but most are from when he started college several years later, drifting around without being able to muster interest in anything.

He looks much the same as he did during the funeral, Connor muses. He’s smiling in most of the pictures, but there’s no real joy in his face and his eyes are still dead. It makes sense to him, now, looking back. All he did, for so many years, was wait for something to come around and end him. He would never have done anything himself, but he still remembers waiting and hoping, every time he took a late night walk, every time he went shopping, every single time he crossed the street.

Elijah changed that. Elijah and his unapologetic brilliance, the arrogance born from knowing he was the most clever person in every room he entered, his endless flirting. It was at a party Connor’s classmate had dragged him to, he remembers. He hadn't been there for twenty minutes before deciding he needed to leave, but when he turned around there was Elijah, drink in his hand flying as they collided. Elijah had dragged Connor around, mood souring faster than his shirt starting to smell of beer, as an ‘apology’ for spilling it all over him. This, of course, said with such a suggestive expression and tone that it had actually made Connor laugh.

It was ridiculous, one of those first meetings that you could see in movies. As drunk as he was Connor was certain Elijah didn't remember it, but Connor did. When he started a new class he recognized the smirk, and he discovered Elijah could still make him laugh. No one had been able to make him laugh easily since Aidan died.

And the photos in front of his eyes show the changes. It happens almost overnight, from one photo to the next. In one the smile is lifeless and forced, in the next one there is light and ease in his face. He’s standing across from someone, laughing at whatever that person is saying. He recognizes Elijah’s long hair, even from behind and several years ago. He always had that ponytail. It almost makes him smile, looking at the photo now.

But then the photos become- strange. There are no more selfies or photos taken for official purposes, the photos are always focused on Connor, and Connor only. Him sitting in class, him grocery shopping, working out, reading, working, talking and laughing. None of them shows Connor knowing the photographer is there.

“These,” Jared murmurs, “are all after we met. You made me take up photography, because I had to try and keep your beauty somehow. You were always amazing, no matter what you did. I think my skills evolved pretty quickly, wouldn't you agree?”

It takes some doing, but Connor manages to not wonder how Jared managed to get all these photos of him. There are many pictures for the past year, almost as many as the rest of the album combined, and he is clearly not aware of any of them. It shakes the numbness slightly, shoves in nausea. But that’s okay, Connor is getting used to feeling sick every moment he spends around Jared.

Perhaps that's why it takes him several photos before he realizes something is off. Jared must have been looking at him, gauging his reaction, because he chuckles and shrugs. He looks embarrassed.

“I had help with these, since I'm not really that comfortable around computers. See, I would never get tired of seeing pictures of you, and only you. But I was getting- how do I put it? We had a bond, a bond no one could break, I knew that. But being forced to stay away from you, even though I was still close. Your glances and smiles kept me alive, yes, but I wanted to actually be by your side. With all those people, with that- that _person,_ ” Jared spits, and Connor realizes that not even one picture shows Elijah’s face, “keeping me away I had to do what I could, until finally we would be together. And doesn't it look great, the two of us together?”

In most pictures now, there is Jared. Sitting next to Connor, looking at him with a smile, eating next to him, seemingly talking to him. Whoever made the edits to the photos was skilled; Connor wouldn't have thought anything was off if he hadn't known all too well that they were all fake.

“It’s a tad embarrassing,” Jared says, clearing his throat. Connor can't look at him, can only stare at the pictures while the pit in his stomach grows larger. “But I only meant for them to be there for a while, until we can get real photos in there. So I'll remove them soon, and then we will put in all our real, actual photos. Nothing photoshopped. Just you and me.”

Connor blinks slowly as Jared carefully closes the book, stroking the back with a smile that sends shivers down Connor’s back.

“So what do you think? It’s great, isn't it?” Jared beams before getting up, looking down at the book lovingly. “I've inserted so much of myself in this, time and effort and money. It’s truly what I'm most proud of, the thing I treasure the most. Except for you, of course! This is nothing compared to you, now that you're real and breathing and _here._ ”

 _I hate you._ Connor feels the words at the tip of his tongue, ready to pour out the moment he opens his mouth. He wants to scream it, spit it in Jared’s face, wants to beat his fists against that smiling face.

Silently he looks down at his hands, shaking in his lap. He can’t muster enough force in them to cause pain, or even momentary ache as his nails bit into his palms. His pulse is still loud in his ears, but he has to wait, he has to make himself calm down. Nothing good comes when he lets his feelings take control instead of his brain—the very situation he’s in shows as much.

Jared has said he will stop drugging him. Connor hasn't seen him put anything in the glass during this meal. It will take some hours, but then the effects will disappear and he will be able to move again.

He watches with a blank face as Jared, carefully and so gently, puts the photo album back in the bookcase. He doesn't curse, doesn't spit, doesn't scream. Jared goes back and picks up the plate, as though Connor ever manages to eat more than half the food he brings, if even that. But Connor doesn't say anything, pretends to be obedient.

Silently he keeps flexing his hands, waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I love all of you ❤


	9. Chapter 9

Day 4, 9:57AM.

Markus is fuming. All he had heard from anyone was that the guy who had sent him to the hospital had also kidnapped Connor. That lieutenant, Carl, even Leo refused to tell him more. They had just told him to calm down and when he was clearer in the head and more calm he would find out. 

Calm. As though he was going to be  _ calm _ knowing the man he loved was in the clutches of a potential murderer.  _ How the hell _ could anyone expect him to be  _ calm? _

Once he had come down from the medical induced high he had demanded that someone tell him what was going on, or else he wouldn't be responsible for what he would do. Carl had taken one look at his face and nodded. So now he is waiting, sitting in the hospital bed, staring at the door. 

Kamski is supposed to show up at ten, and for the past fifteen minutes Markus hasn't been able to do much other than stare at the clock, then turn and stare at the door, then back at the clock. Carl stopped trying to talk to him ten minutes ago, once Markus stopped responding to him. Leo had stopped trying to talk over half an hour earlier, choosing instead to sit and scroll through his phone. The fact that he’s still there warms Markus’ heart—the small part that isn't bursting from worry and impotent anger.

He keeps remembering Connor’s face, the wide eyes and the terror in his voice as he shouted. It flashes through Markus’ mind each and every time he closes his eyes now, and he keeps having to fight the urge to jump out of bed and run off to do- something. Anything. Anything would be better than just lying around waiting for other people to come to him and tell him things about the man he loves, the man  _ he failed. _

Instead, he’s trapped in bed, trapped by his father’s worried face and bony hand. He doesn't care about the state of his injuries, all he wants is to find Connor, but he can't say no to Carl. Not now, at least. He is clear-headed enough to admit to himself that he wouldn't know where to go or what to do if he did rush away, so if nothing else he will find out what exactly happened. 

Carl had refused to answer any of his questions, and seeing the pallor creep over his father’s face stopped Markus from pushing. Leo knew nothing, and Markus didn't dare bother the lieutenant from the day before, worried that any time spent explaining things for Markus was taken from looking for Connor. So all he could do was wait for his boss, who apparently knew everything that was going on, according to Carl. 

Maybe Carl had meant it as a comforting idea, that Elijah would be able to answer all of Markus’ questions, but it only makes him want to yell at the man and shake him when he opens the door. 

“Carl, Leo, good morning. Markus, it’s good to see you're awake,” Elijah says, but he doesn't meet Markus’ eyes. First time for that, he supposes, his mood quickly growing darker. Elijah is feeling guilty; does he have anything to do with what happened? 

“I need to know everything,” Markus says bluntly, not caring about Carl’s warning hand, his soft murmur of ‘Markus, please.’ He only keeps staring at Elijah. “No one else will answer my questions, so if you aren't prepared to talk, there is no reason for you to be here.”

Elijah nods slowly, but when he looks up, he looks at Carl instead of Markus. “Why don’t you and Leo go and enjoy some fresh air? You've been cooped up in here for quite some time, I imagine it must be feeling a bit stuffy.”

Carl narrows his eyes. “Are you  _ really _ using my own method against me? You have some nerve.”

“He’s right. The weather looks nice, so why don't you take the chance and have a nice walk? It would do good for your lungs,” Markus says without looking away from Elijah.

Carl sighs, but it’s Leo who speaks. “They're right, dad. If they try to kill each other it’s better if we're not here, or else we might have to be called as witnesses.”

“You too!” Carl growls, then makes an exasperated noise. “Fine! But the only way I leave is if I get your word that you will not attempt to leave the bed, Markus.”

Markus glances as Carl who is wearing that face he gets when he is deadly serious. There is no choice but to agree. “I won’t try to get up, I swear. And there’s no reason for us to try and hurt each other; we’re just going to talk.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Carl waves him away and points sharply at Leo. “Since you are on their side you get to drive me around. I'm feeling scenic today. Let’s take a long, good walk.”

Leo groans but grabs the handles of the wheelchair and steers Carl out of the room, giving Elijah a glare as he passes by. 

“Carl didn't want to upset you,” Elijah says out of the blue, a few seconds after the door closes. Now he’s meeting Markus’ eyes, a calm expression on his face. It would have been believable if not for the way he hugged himself. “Your injuries could easily have been so much worse than they were, and he was scared that making you upset would somehow make it worse. Someone would have to tell you what happened sooner or later, of course, but Carl wanted it to be later rather than sooner. To spare him from having to have this conversation I told him to call me once you were well enough to talk, since I am the one outside of the police most qualified to have this conversation.”

“Then stop dodging the subject and tell me what happened,” Markus hisses. “Who attacked us? Why did he attack us, and why did he take Connor? Why do you know so much more than anyone else? What is  _ your _ role in all this?”

Elijah walks over to the windows, looks out for a moment before turning around. “It’s a stalker. We don’t know who he is, only that he’s been after Connor for almost a year. He’s been leaving letters for Connor once a month or every second month.”

“A stalker,” Markus repeats tonelessly. He shakes his head, pushes his free hand against his forehead. “A  _ stalker?” _

Elijah flinches, just a moment’s gesture that would have been missed if Markus hadn't already been staring at him. “Connor showed me the first envelope he got. When he received the second one we understood it was serious.”

“Then why haven't you  _ done something? _ ” Markus didn't mean for his voice to rise, and he sits back to take a calming breath. Not that it does much good. 

“I-" For the first time, Elijah stammers, his cool facade slipping as he hugs his arms tighter. He looks everywhere but at Markus. “I had Luther and all the security doing everything they could to find the guy, to find any traces of him, but there was nothing. Connor refused to take it to the police. I… I didn't know what else I could do, except save the evidence and keep my eyes on him as much as possible.”

Markus sneers, his breath coming in quick huffs. “Really? You blame the kidnapped person for your own shortcomings? Connor trusted you, always has! I was always so envious of your friendship, but now I see the trust and admiration only went one way.”

Elijah’s head flies up, and his face is dark as he glares at Markus. “Don’t you  _ dare _ claim that I don't care about him! He’s my closest friend, the only person apart from Chloe who have wanted to stay near me for so long, the only one who didn't grow to resent me. I would do anything for him!”

“Then why didn't you protect him?!” He’s yelling now, but Markus doesn't care. He only sees Connor’s face, and it makes every part of him shake with the need to  _ do something. _

Elijah reacts as though Markus punched him, flinching and taking a step back, pressing his back up against the window. He’s shaking his head, and seeing it makes Markus’ vision flare red. 

“You let a stalker torment him for a whole year without doing anything, then you let him get kidnapped! You always go on like you're the smartest person, rich and brilliant and handsome,” Markus spits out, “but when someone needed your help you didn't lift a finger. What about those safety rules for the club? You are always telling everyone that if anything happens you will have their back. Was that for everyone  _ but _ Connor?”

“I- I didn't-"

“You were right  _ there, _ why didn't you do anything? Why didn't you-" His voice breaks into a sob, and Markus curls over. He hadn't noticed when the tears began flowing, but now he can't stop them. Wiping his face does nothing, but he still chokes out, “You just  _ let _ him get taken. You could have stopped it… you could have  _ stopped it. _ ”

Elijah breathes heavily, his hands pushed against his face. His whole body is shaking, Markus can see that, but he doesn't seem to be crying. Unlike Markus who is having problems breathing now, the sobs wreaking havoc through his body, making his chest hurt and his head flash with blinding pain with every other shaky gasp. 

“ _ What in the world is going on here? _ ”

Markus tries to turn his head to see who entered the room, but he still tries to gasp for air, can’t make his body unfurl. He hears quick steps coming towards him, then there is a pair of hands holding him, rubbing his back and helping him, slowly but surely, to straighten up. Still gasping, but finding it much easier to get air, Markus looks up to see a nurse glaring down at him, then turning to glare at Elijah. 

“This is a hospital, not a soccer field where you can scream and shout as much as you want. Especially not when one of you is a patient who really shouldn't get so worked up. I don't care what you two were arguing about, but I'm putting a stop to it right now. You, sir, need to leave.”

Markus shakes his head. It’s hard to talk, but he tries to shake off the nurse as he manages gasping words. “We’re not done!”

“Yes, you most certainly are. Now lie down!”

Elijah just watches in silence as Markus continues to struggle, then he steps forward, pauses next to the end of the bed and is drawing all attention as he speaks. “You’re right. I could, and I should have, done much more. I will always keep this regret with me, and if-  _ when _ Connor comes back home I will do everything I can to make up for it.”

Markus sneers. More empty words. As though they will do anything. He keeps on ignoring the nurse trying to get him to lie down and calm himself. He keeps his eyes fixed on Elijah, doesn't look away for one moment. 

Elijah’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment before simply closing. He lowers his eyes and walks forward, but before he gets to the door Markus calls his name, the need to tell him one last thing too overpowering. 

“Know this, Kamski. You may feel however guilty you want, I don't care. If Connor doesn't come home I will hold  _ you _ responsible.”

Markus finally lets the nurse push him down again, closing his eyes as he tries to calm the fury rushing through his body. He hears Elijah quickly leaving the room, no words of protest offered. They are both in agreement, then. If only that made Markus feel any better.

  
  


-

  
  


I̸̙̕ŝ̷̙ ̷̢̏i̶̞̒t̶̗̊ ̵̬d̷̫̄ä̸̬́y̵̩ ̶̫̏3̶̥̋?̶͒ͅ ̶̺̈́O̸̼̊r̶̻̀ ̸͎̈́d̸͎̓a̵̫̾y̷͍̕ ̵͔̔4̷̢̿?̴̷̟̈́

Jared comes with breakfast, toast and eggs that Connor barely eats of. The juice is easier to stomach, especially now that Jared has decided to stop drugging him. His strength is returning, he can feel it, but he doesn't say anything, only lets Jared feed him. When it gets too much, when the food he’s eaten threatens to come up again, Jared picks up the tray with a sigh. Connor not eating much is worrying him, he says as though Connor cares about what he thinks or feels. 

Then, finally, finally, he leaves. Connor waits, hears the lock, waits longer. Then. 

With his heart in his throat Connor pushes away the blanket. His heart beats a little faster when it works without any problems. His hand doesn't even shake with the effort that has up till now been too much. 

He breathes hard when he pushes himself up in a sitting position, the excitement and nervousness making his heart race like mad. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Every movement he does aches, unused muscles complaining after being unused for such a long time, but Connor slowly starts smiling. The ache is evidence of it working, is evidence of him moving on his own accord, by his own strength. 

When he puts his feet down on the floor he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. This is it, the last test, but a part of him is terrified to try. In his mind he sees himself trying to stand up, then immediately falling. Failing. 

But the alternative is staying, letting Jared do whatever he wants, and Connor  _ cannot _ do that, he can't. That would mean death to him, of mind and heart if not body.

So with a deep breath he prepares himself- and stands up. It’s easy, and even though his head feels like he just downed a whole bottle of vodka he only sways a little. He tries taking a step. Then another. 

He doesn't fall. 

His legs are weak, yes, and every step aches, but he’s walking. The first few steps are hesitant, shaky, but there is nothing in his body threatening to make him fall. There’s a smile on his face, one that he can't smother. 

With that done, the tests completed for now, Connor looks around, takes in the room in a way he hasn't done before. Four walls, two doors. First things first, to make himself sure.

He tries the first door, the one leading to the outside. Locked, the steel making it impossible to try and force. The second door, to the bathroom. Also locked, which makes him swear quickly. He can't remember hearing or seeing Jared lock it, but apparently he had simply missed it. It definitely puts a damper on his mood; when he has been in the bathroom before he has seen plenty of items that could have been useful in escaping, but now he has to make do without any, which is a much less heartening thought. 

There is the bed, and a nightstand beside it. Quickly he goes through the two drawers but finds them empty. Useless. The table with the chessboard and the two armchairs are equally quickly dismissed. There are the bookcases, filled with nothing but equally useless books. Then there are the windows, two of them, covered by thick curtains. 

He doesn't dare hope, but he moves across the room as quickly as possible. When he reaches for the closest of the two curtains his hand is shaking, ever so slightly. Despite his attempts to keep it down he can feel hope beating in his chest as he pulls the curtain aside. 

And he feels it die just as quickly. 

Both the windows are covered by bars, the heavy locks not budging as he pulls at them with mounting desperation. On the other side of the windows he sees wooden boards, covering the whole area. He wants to scream, slam his hands against the bars, pull and push and tear with all his strength. 

He can't, can’t make too much noise. He doesn't know where Jared is, doesn't know if he’s in the next room or even outside the door. He doesn't know, he can't possibly know. 

When the tears come he pushes against the bars, pushes and pulls as he sobs, choking with the knowledge of freedom being so close but also so far away. The strength he had been gathering vanishes, leaving him with his head hanging as he just lets go. His legs are getting shaky, weak, and he leans his forehead against the bars, closing his eyes. 

This close he can see the gaps between the boards, can see the thin rays of light. It’s day, then. How many days has it been? How many days has he been caught, trapped in this damn room, kept a prisoner by a deluded man?  _ Too many, _ is all he can think, and he feels the tears stop, feels the bars press into his skin as his hands tighten around them. One day would be too many, but it has been more than one day, that he knows. Too many, too many, too many. 

With a snarl he pushes away from the window and looks around. What to do, what to do, there has to be  _ something _ he can do.  _ Anything. _ He can't give up, he won't give up. He will not let Jared win.

The feeling bubbling in his chest is different, it’s fiery and wild and wants nothing but destruction. In the corner of his eye he spots a bookcase. Jared had been so proud of the collection of books, Connor could easily see that. He might have claimed they were for Connor, but he had been the one far more interested. He liked them, had taken care to get them here, in the room. 

With fire in his veins Connor pulls out a book at random. He feels so unlike himself, like he is simply watching his body open the book and tear pages from it, emotionlessly letting the papers drop. It should make him upset, because destroying property—destroying  _ books _ in particular—is something he has always frowned upon. Instead he keeps going, rips the pages loose and lets them flutter to the wooden floor. Throws away the book and takes another, does the same and throws it away with a quarter to half of its contents on the floor. 

And more and more books join the growing pile, Connor’s movements growing frantic, his breaths coming faster as he loses himself in the senseless destruction. There’s a smile on his face, though it holds nothing but bitterness and grief and rage. His thoughts are nothing but a whirlwind of ‘destroy,’ ‘tear,’ ‘rip it apart.’ Over and over and over. 

Then he has another book in his hand, the feel of it somehow familiar. He blinks as he comes back to himself, looks down at his hands, confused about what he’s doing, or rather, why he stopped. 

There- Markus’ book, stain and all. Connor frowns, trails fingers carefully over the cover. He remembers Markus’ smile. Markus, and Elijah, and Chloe and Luther and Kara and Traci and everyone. He wants to go home. He wants, so badly, to throw himself in Elijah’s arms. To feel Chloe kiss his cheek. He wants to see Markus smile at him and talk to him and take his hand and kiss him until he can't breathe any longer. 

He smiles, remembering the last shift they had. Markus’ teasing smile. The way he had looked when he walked through the parking lot. His concern. His-

_ A shout of pain. Blood. Markus, lying on the ground, unmoving, with blood pooling beneath him, slowly, so slowly. Jared crouching, touching Connor, telling him to go to sleep, when all he wants is to see Markus, Markus who’s lying just a few feet away, unmoving, bloody pool slowly growing, Markus,  _ **_Markus-_ **

“ _ No. _ ”

The moan had come from him, Connor realizes. He’s clutching the book to his chest, shaking his head, swaying on his feet. No, it couldn't be. Markus couldn't be-

How could he have forgotten?  _ How _ could he have been so selfish, so wrapped up in his own situation, that he had forgotten Markus, forgotten how he might be dead. He probably is. He hadn't moved, not after that last kick. He hadn't moved, and there was so much blood, and he  _ hadn't moved. _

With a wordless shout Connor throws the book, staring as it hits the wall and falls to the floor. For a moment he’s frozen, can’t tear his eyes off the still object, then he reaches out and shoves out all the books left on the shelf. They barely manage to hit the floor before he’s on to the next shelf, doesn't bother opening them and ripping out the pages, it takes too much time, it’s too detailed, he can't think, doesn't want to think, needs to  _ move. _

He’s breathing hard when the bookcase is empty. His hands are shaking, from residual weakness and exertion or from all the feelings about to overflow, he doesn't know, and he  _ can't stop _ . He needs to do something, needs to stop the image of Markus’ body in his head, needs to stop the fear of what will happen when Jared comes back. Without thinking, with all his effort used to not think, he turns to the next bookcase and begins tearing out books there too, carelessly stepping on those already lying on the floor. 

The senseless destruction continues, Connor doesn't know for how long. There is no time inside his prison, no way to count the minutes or hours or days. There are the lamps in the ceiling, turned on when Jared wants and turned off when he doesn't. Nothing else. 

He’s breathing hard now, hands shaking, without a doubt because of the physical exertion. The strength he was so happy about was smaller than he thought, he feels so damn weak. His body is still aching, his stomach the most, and he wraps his arms around his middle, hugging himself close. What is he supposed to do? What  _ can _ he do?

Unseeing he takes a step, but the book under his foot slips and he falls with a yelp, the yelp turning into a choked out groan as he lands painfully on hard books. Never mind the aching from earlier, now his body is  _ hurting, _ and he doesn't know whether he should laugh or cry. Both impulses are there, needing just a little less control to break free. He considers just letting them when he feels something almost- soft? Velvety? 

A dissociated sense of curiosity makes him grab the thing and bring it up so he can look at it, only for him to freeze.  _ Treasure. _ The photo album. Jared’s photo album. The photo album recording Connor’s life.  _ Jared’s treasure. _

Connor’s hand moves as though it has a life of its own, opening the book. There it is, the first picture of Connor and his family, his parents, Aidan, his  _ life _ . With his breath stuck in his throat Connor reaches out and pulls the picture loose, holding it up in front of his face. He doesn't know how long he sits there, staring at everything he has lost, every person who once meant everything to him. 

Jared has taken them and put them in a neat book, tucked away for when he’d want to look at them. He has taken Connor’s family, their  _ lives _ , something he has no right to. They're not his. Connor is  _ not his. _

Slowly he reaches out and takes hold of the photo with two hands, and the act of ripping it apart feels like it’s his own heart he’s holding. There’s a keening, broken noise coming from somewhere as Connor keeps tearing the picture into pieces, smaller and smaller and smaller. He can’t see his parents’ faces any longer, can’t spot their happy smiles, can’t see which piece has him and which part has Aidan. 

The torn pieces flutter from shaking fingers, and Connor swallows, closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. Then he pulls out the next picture and does the same. Then the next. And the next. All the pictures, of proud parents, of sleepy babies, of curious toddlers, of laughing toddlers sitting in the middle of different disasters. The tears start falling when he rips apart the picture of him and Aidan sleeping against Echo, and they won't stop.

The strange, low keening noise is back, but Connor can’t summon enough attention to think about it. He just keeps methodically pulling out and destroying each and every picture Jared has stolen, each one a part of Connor that he will never get back, each one a part of his heart and soul that he watches flutter to the floor irrevocably fragmented. And he continues. 

He sobs at the first funeral pictures, and tearing those pictures to pieces feels like losing his parents all over again. His vision is blurry, making it almost impossible for him to actually see, but he continues without wiping his eyes clean. It’s easier this way, doesn't let him realize what exactly he’s doing,  _ who _ he’s ripping apart. He pretends—he’s getting better at pretending—he pretends he can't see, he pretends that he doesn't know he’s tearing apart the pictures of Aidan. Killing him.  _ Again. _

But he can see, and he knows when he comes to the last one, the last picture before  _ then. _ He holds the picture in his hand, strokes the side that has Aidan. They're seventeen in that picture, Connor knows. Aidan usually held an aloof, sarcastic presence around others, but with Connor he was as soft and caring as he had always been. Despite being the younger twin he always tried to act like an older brother, to Connor's eternal annoyance. It was why Connor had insisted on driving that night, stubborn about not needing to sleep when Aidan had crammed half the night before for a test. Connor had even gotten his license before Aidan, so it made sense he drove, no matter how much Aidan nagged. 

What he wouldn't do to hear Aidan asking pointed questions about his abilities, Connor thinks. He would have let Aidan get away with anything. He would happily have said he was right, in every single situation, if only he could still have had his brother by his side. 

Instead, all he has is one photo in his hand, collected by a maniac.  _ Treasured _ by the maniac. All that Aidan was, taken and used against Connor. He would have been so angry, even angrier than Connor is.

He holds the picture between his two hands, prepared. But it’s harder, even more so than the first photo. His hands are shaking. His breath comes in quick bursts of air, his pulse beating in an irregular rhythm, faster and faster and faster. He threw away everything that even remotely reminded him of Aidan, back when he moved out of the foster home. He has nothing now. Nothing but this one last photo, where Aidan has his arm around Connor’s shoulder and a wide smile on his face. 

He can't do it. 

But he has to. 

He can't. 

Not destroying the photo will let Jared have it, and doing  _ that _ will be betraying Aidan. 

But it’s the last photo of his brother, the last one where he lives, smiles and breathes and lives. 

_ How is he supposed to be able to destroy it? _

The question is tearing him apart, but he doesn't get to make a decision—with a snap his head flies up at the sound of something happening with the door, the steel one, the one to the outside. 

The photo is forgotten in less than a heartbeat, Connor flying to his feet and desperately trying to figure out what to do. He hasn't actually made any plans—he didn't think Jared would be back so soon—and he can't think of anything. So at the sound of a key being inserted in the lock Connor’s body moves, far quicker than his brain, and he presses himself against the wall at the side of the opening door, praying that Jared won't be able to hear his heart slam against his chest. 

“Connor, I'm ba-  _ what the- _ ”

Connor, hidden behind the door, sees Jared’s back as he steps fully into the room, and instincts take control. Before Jared finishes his question Connor has slipped behind him, his arm sneaking around Jared’s throat and locking into his other arm, and  _ pressing. _ Jared makes some sort of surprised or disgruntled noise—Connor can’t hear it through the loud buzzing in his ears—and grabs at Connor’s arm. The instinctive reaction does nothing. Connor keeps the pressure on. 

But there is weakness, he can feel it. After the days of being drugged and bedridden, after tearing through the books Connor is far from the strength he usually has. The moment he locked the hold he knew it, that he can only hold on for so long. 

But as long as he can choke Jared into unconsciousness that’s enough. 

As Jared gasps Connor presses a foot against the back of Jared’s knee, putting enough of his body weight behind it to make Jared stumble, fall to his knees. It’s quicker than Connor was expecting, and though he follows along with the movement he can feel his hold loosen, just a moment, just enough for Jared to take a gasping breath before the pressure is back. Connor pants, scrunches his eyes shut for just a few seconds before forcing them open again.  _ Please, _ let it work. 

Jared keeps gasping, one of his hands slapping uselessly at Connor’s arm. It’s working. It has to be. Connor focuses, puts just a little more of the strength he doesn't have into the chokehold. Jared grabs at his elbow, but his hand is shaking. 

Without warning there is a blinding pain in his side, making Connor’s whole body lock up. He can't think, can’t move, can’t feel anything but the pain running like a lightning strike through his body. Absently he feels Jared push away from his grip, but the pain is still going and Connor  _ can't move. _

Then the pain stops, abruptly, and as the muscles in his body stop spasming Connor tumbles to the floor, gasping loudly. Just near him there is equally loud coughing and panting, and after a few seconds Connor manages to move his shaky arms to push himself to the side. Jared is coughing and rubbing his throat while he stares at the mess Connor made. There is shock there, a sort of empty brokenness that scares Connor when it turns to him. The care and love, twisted as it had been, is nonexistent now. 

He shakes his head, manages to push himself around and tries desperately to get to his feet—the door is open, if he can only get up, if he can run fast enough, he can escape. 

He slips. There is movement behind him, something being pushed against his back, and then-  _ pain. _

Pain that seems to continue for eternity, locking all his muscles in place, making him scream, continuing to ravage through his body until finally, everything goes dark. 

When he wakes up again his body is aching—that's precisely what he had felt like before, though, so he disregards it. Trying to move his arms doesn't yield much result, something wrapped around his wrists preventing him from moving them too much. He’s lying on something soft, and with his heart in his mouth he opens his eyes, already knowing what he’ll find. He’s back on the bed like he thought, but the cuffs strapped around his hands and—he can see them if he raises his head—around his feet are new. He still tries trashing, pulls as hard as he can, forces back tears, he has to get free, has to get loose before-

“How  _ could _ you?” 

Connor stops moving at the sound of Jared’s voice, hoarser than usual, the terror growing as Jared steps up to the bed. The photo album is in his hands. There is nothing but grief in his face—grief and hurt and anger. 

“No, no,  _ please- _ ”

“You know how much this meant to me.” Jared doesn't hesitate at Connor’s plea, only shakes his head as he stares down at the ruined album. “I spent  _ so _ much on this, for both of us, and you just- I can't believe you. How could you  _ do this _ to me?”

Jared’s eyes are cold as he pulls out some sort of device from his pocket. Connor hasn't seen it before, but from the shape and the situation he can guess that it’s what caused him so much pain. He shakes his head, mouths another please, but Jared brings the device down on his forearm and a moment later Connor’s body seizes from the pain. His arm moves instinctively, tries to pull away from the device, but the restraints stop it. 

The pain stops only a few seconds later, but Connor is still reeling from it, tears running down his temples. 

“I collected those photos for you, for us,” Jared says and presses down the device, one second, two seconds, then removes it. Connor is shaking, sobs wrecking his body. It hurts, it hurts so bad, he’s already hurting everywhere, why can't it just  _ stop? _

“I had hoped- you seemed so good, so accepting, and I hoped I wouldn't regret my decision yesterday. But you- I could never have imagined you'd go this far!” 

Jared pushes the device into Connor’s thigh, and his whole body arches, strains against the restraints keeping him down. He screams, voiceless, as though the pain managed to choke any noises in his throat. Once it stops and he can think again, can move his body, Connor tosses himself back and forth, as much as he can, tries to somehow get loose, get away— _ something. _

“You hurt me, Connor. You really did. But worst of all, you disappointed me. I thought you were better than this. But your behavior has shown that I was wrong.” 

The device presses against his other thigh and Connor is blinded, just for a second, by the lightning in his body or the tears, it’s hard to say. There's a metallic taste in his mouth and his tongue is throbbing; he must have bitten it, hard enough to draw blood. The thought is somehow hysterical, almost forces him into senseless laughter. But Jared's look keeps the laughter away.

“You understand why I do this, don't you? You did a horrible thing, which must be punished. It’s a core principle that should be followed throughout life. Otherwise, why would you keep to the rules?”

Connor sees Jared stop by his left arm, reaching out for it. He still can't talk, doesn't try, only shakes his head and wordlessly asks, please, don’t, stop it, no more. He is ignored. 

“I will trust that you have learned the lesson now,” Jared says as he puts the device away in his pocket again. Connor is shaking, doesn't react as Jared strokes his face with a furrowed brow. The anger on his face from earlier is gone now, as though there was never anything but care and love. “I sure hope you have. It was awful to have to do this to you, and I never want to see you in such pain again. But it was necessary, as I'm sure you understand. You're so clever, after all.”

Jared sighs and shakes his head. “But there is still the matter of your behavior. I'm afraid I have to do something about that, because I can't have you continue to act in such a manner. But I also don't want to hurt you, do you see? That’s why I will have to keep you restrained like this, both for your own sake and for mine. I don't want to have any more surprises like today. As for your behavioral issues…” 

With a pained noise Jared closes his eyes, his hand still resting on Connor’s face. Connor is still shaking, still crying, soundlessly. “I really don't want to do this. You have no idea how it pains me… but I see no alternative. Until you swear you will stop behaving like this I will not provide you with any food. I will give you plenty of water every day, but until you can promise me you’ll be good I will not bring you anything to eat. And, god, I really hope you'll use common sense and stop acting like a temperamental child quickly. It’s really not good for your body to be without food for longer stretches of time.” Jared withdraws his hand, clicking his tongue. 

“But what can you do?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special warning about mild body horror in this chapter, during the italicized part, so you are all aware.

Day 5, 9:12AM.

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

“Don’t you start yelling at me, _Detective."_

Gavin manages to shut his mouth, just barely, and while he does his best to show the captain just how much he doesn't appreciate the current situation Fowler just sighs.

“I understand that you're invested in this, both of you,” Fowler gestures to Hank, sprawled in one of the visitor chairs, “but you have to see this objectively. It’s been five days, and you're still nowhere close to having a single lead, much less finding him. Now, I'm not telling you to close the case, Reed, so turn that glare elsewhere before I write you up. I'm just saying that there are other cases that needs your attention—newer and more critical ones.”

“We’ll find him,” Gavin grits out, carefully keeping his tone level. More or less.

“Perhaps. But as it stands right now you're far from that point, and the resources you’re using are needed for other cases that have a much bigger chance of being solved.”

“So, what? You're saying we should just abandon him?” Gavin’s voice rises in volume with each word, despite him trying his best to keep it down. “Just give up because he’s _already dead?_ Is that what you think?”

“I'm not saying shit,” Fowler growls, fingers pale from how hard he’s pressing his hands together. Unlike Gavin, he successfully keeps his voice down, however. “But I _am_ giving you an order, Detective, as your captain. This case’s priority has been lowered, and you will only work on it when the rest of your caseload allows.”

“Be happy he didn't close it, Reed,” Hank interrupts before Gavin can tell Fowler what he thinks of that order. “We can still work it, probably more or less at the same speed we've been going at for the last couple days. Don't fight it, or you’ll make the situation worse. Am I right, Jeffrey?”

Fowler snorts and shakes his head. “To think you’d be the reasonable one. Listen, Reed. Either you take this chance, or I might have to give you a few days to cool your head off—outside of work. What are you going to choose?”

For some reason Gavin feels hurt, like Hank betrayed him by agreeing with Fowler. He chews on air silently for a few seconds, then turns on his heels and goes for the door. “I need some fucking air. Fuck!”

What the hell is he supposed to tell Elijah?

 

-

 

_It’s nice. The weather’s warm, with a light breeze running through Connor’s hair every now and then. He decided to leave home without a jacket, and the decision was definitely the right one._

_A sharp pinch in his side makes him flinch, and he turns a glare to his right. Aidan just raises an eyebrow, playing up how utterly unimpressed he is. “You aren't even pretending to listen.”_

_“That doesn't mean you should give me bruises until people wonder if I'm in an abusive relationship or something.” Connor rolls his eyes and dances out of the way of the elbow he knows without looking is coming his way._

_“If they only know how callously you treat your brother, they would all understand.” Aidan makes a face at him, burrowing his hands into the pockets of the hoodie he’s wearing._

_Connor gets the urge to point out how that’s definitely a pout, then quickly disregards it. Then decides, what the hell. “If you pout at them as adorably as you are right now, I'm sure they’ll believe anything you say.”_

_Aidan’s face settles into that too-familiar expression—eyes narrowed, jaw set—and then he throws himself after Connor who is already running, letting loose his laughter. He can always count on ‘adorable’ getting a good reaction. Aidan’s glare almost covers up his red cheeks._

_Eventually, as every chase ends, he catches up. Aidan is faster, with more endurance—and taller, damn it. Connor still hopes that he’ll have one last growth spurt, one where he’ll manage to grow just a millimeter or two taller than Aidan. It’s his responsibility as the older brother to be able to look down on his younger brother, after all. No matter how badly in denial Aidan is about their age difference._

_“Come on, you got me, enough already,” Connor grumbles as Aidan keeps pushing his face into the dirt, and jabs up with his elbow sharply when Aidan only snickers. He feels it hit, hears a huff, and then Aidan lets go of him. Instead of continuing to harass his brother, he flops down next to Connor, spreading his arms wide with a sigh. Connor decides to make himself comfortable as well, uses his brother’s arm as a pillow, because why not._

_“You're too slow, always have been.”_

_“I won that contest in school,” Connor reminds. He’s not_ **_slow,_ ** _Aidan is just ridiculously fast._

_“Yeah, you were fast back then. But people will keep growing, and if you're not careful they will catch up to you. You must always be careful.”_

_Aidan’s face is strangely intense. Connor rolls onto his back, looks up at the tree branches. “You're being ridiculous. And paranoid, for that matter. You're making it sound like I'll have people chasing after me and, I don't know, trying to hurt me or something. And that's_ **_ridiculous,_ ** _” he snorts._

_Aidan doesn't laugh. “You won’t be able to count on me to protect you forever.”_

_“You, protect me? Fuck off, I don't need that. I've never needed your help.”_

_“But you will.”_

_Connor blinks, sitting up. Aidan’s voice is strange, the things he’s saying are weird, and Connor doesn't like it. He doesn't want to continue this conversation, it all feels—he doesn't even know what it is—but it makes him feel uneasy. Instead of looking at his brother, he looks down at his hand, flexes it and stares at how the skin moves. “Let’s go, okay? This is getting weird.”_

_“You can’t run from what will happen, Con.” Aidan’s voice is strange, hoarse and wheezing, sending chills down Connor’s back. “You can’t run from what you did.”_

_As though directed by a force beyond his own body, Connor feels his head turn, and he looks down at Aidan. Aidan looks back, blinking slowly, his head turned at such an angle that Connor’s own neck aches. He doesn't know how Aidan is even able to talk like that, he finds himself thinking. He can't look away, something freezing his head and body in place, preventing him from moving or doing anything when blood starts seeping from countless wounds on Aidan’s body._

_Aidan keeps staring through him with big empty eyes._

_“You can’t forget what you did.”_

_Connor pants, struggles to breathe, his eyes filling with tears. “No, no, please, I didn't! I didn't do this. Please-"_

_“You did. You know you did. You said it yourself, after, that you should’ve been the one to die, not me.” Aidan’s body is twisted, broken, his arm crooked in several places when he reaches out. Connor can’t close his eyes, can’t shake his head, can’t push away. Aidan’s cold hand stings against his cheek, and it leaves his cheek wet when it falls. “I always tried to protect you. Where were_ **_you_ ** _when_ **_I_ ** _needed your help?”_

_“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Connor sobs. He tries to move, tries to crawl over to his brother, to hold him, to soothe him, to lie next to him until they both turn to dust. “Please, Aidan, I’m- I’m so sorry.”_

_“You caused this. You killed me, and you walked away. You left me behind. You forgot me.”_

_“I didn't! I never- I never left you. I could never forget you.”_

_“You left_ **_me_ ** _behind.”_

_Connor chokes and his head is free from whatever force held it still, free to fly up and stare up at the man standing in front of him. Markus isn't smiling—he’s always smiling when he sees Connor but he isn't smiling now—he’s looking coldly at Connor. Disappointed. Disgusted._

_“No! No, I didn't! I didn't, trust me!” The tears in his eyes just keep coming, making it too hard to see. He wishes he could move, could reach Markus, get closer and tell him, convince him that it's the truth._

_“I was hurt, and you left with him,” Markus’ tone is as cold as his eyes. Connor groans, shaking his head, begging no no no, when blood starts running down his temple. “You left me, and then you forgot me.”_

_“You left me behind, and then you forgot me,” Aidan echoes._

_Connor closes his eyes, shaking his head again. He keeps hearing their voices, keeps seeing their bloodied faces even through closed eyes._

_“Failure.”_

_“Betrayer.”_

_“You forgot me.”_

_“You left me behind.”_

_“You let me die.”_

_“_ **_You left me to die._ ** _”_

_Connor screams. There are tears on his face, he can't breathe, and he screams and he screams and he screams—anything to drown out their accusing words. It doesn't matter how loudly he screams, though. They're always there, whispering in his ears, in his head; he can't hear anything but them. Something drips onto his face; he feels himself being covered. He can't breathe, he can't think, he can only see their broken bodies, their eyes judging him, hear their voices blaming him._

He’s still screaming when he wakes up. He can't stop.

 

-

 

Ẉ̷̈́h̵̒͜ả̴̺t̸̲͌ ̷̙͘d̷̩̈́a̶̳y̶̰̽ ̷̪̔i̷̛̳s̵̭̓ ̶̡̓i̵̩t̴̥̽?̸͗

It hurts. Everything hurts, and Jared is there again. Connor tries to ignore him, wants to pretend he’s not there, but the hand squeezing his heart doesn't let him.

“I'm glad to see there isn’t any damage from the restraints. You've been thrashing around quite a bit, especially in your sleep,” Jared says as he leans back in his chair with worried frown on his face. For once, Connor is actually watching him, though he can’t stop flinching whenever Jared moves his hands. “I know that it must be quite difficult for you, being tied up like this—and, trust me, it’s not something I take pleasure in—but I had to do it. You were acting so irrationally, so cruelly… after all I did for you, _why_ did you have to-”

Connor’s pulse starts racing when Jared’s face darkens, and his memory flashes back to pain running through him, locking up every part of his body so that he can only wait for the pain to stop, more helpless than he’s ever felt before.

“I’ve been nothing but kind and considerate to you, from the very beginning,” Jared says. His hands flexes in his lap, and Connor shakes his head, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Not again, please, he doesn’t want to feel that pain again, _please_. But Jared is so focused on his hands, doesn’t see Connor’s silent struggle, only continues talking. “I did everything I could to make your transition here easier. I cared about you and your interests, and I was as careful and gentle with you as I could be. I don’t- I don’t understand how you could return all the affection and care I’ve shown you by destroying something you know means a lot to me. I told you, I said it outright, I told you how much that photo album means to me—and you try to rip it apart? If I hadn’t come in when I did, Connor, would you have destroyed all of it? Every part, every single photo that I painstakingly put together, you would have just- just ripped them all apart? Despite all I’ve done for you?”

The mess of books and pages and pieces of photos that’d been left after Connor’s rampage is gone. Sometime when Connor was sleeping the day before—he thinks it was the day before—Jared had cleaned it all up, leaving the room as clean and spotless as ever. He had been there when Connor woke, sitting at the end of the bed, staring silently at Connor, that same expression of hurt and anger on his face. But he hasn’t done anything, just stared.

Jared’s wearing that same expression now, and Connor can’t breathe. He can’t move, he’s so tired, he’s weak and shaking, his stomach feels like it’ll tear itself apart, and the look Jared is wearing tears the breath from his throat.

“It’s like you _want_ to hurt me, or to push me until I lose it. Why else would you do such a horrible thing?” Jared lifts his hands suddenly, and Connor closes his eyes with a flinch. But nothing happens, and he slowly opens his eyes to see Jared rub his face hard before taking a deep breath and looking at Connor, smiling gently. “But it doesn’t matter. Even if you try to push me, I won’t hurt you more than I have to, and even that hurts me just as much as it hurts you. I needed to tie you up like this for both of our sakes, and the rest of your punishment is also necessary. But I really hope you aren’t hurting; I picked this type of restraint because they aren’t supposed to hurt, see. They’re hospital grade, meant to keep everyone involved safe and unharmed. It’s possible to tighten them much more, of course, but I wouldn’t want to risk hurting your hands—I’ve always been enamored by them, they’re so beautiful—and there’s really not any need to, either. I know what happens to a body that isn’t getting enough food; you’re losing your strength more and more each day.”

Jared sighs and shakes his head, reaching out to take one of Connor’s hands in his own. Connor wants to pull his hand back, but he doesn’t even dare to try. Even though there’s nothing but loving care in Jared’s face he now knows how easily that can change. “I really wish I didn’t have to do this. It hurts me to see you like this, you know? At least we’ll be able to remove these restraints soon, as soon as your body is too weak to try to attack me again. I really don’t want to experience such a horrible surprise again, and I would hate to have to use the taser again.”

Connor swallows hard and closes his eyes. That’s what it was—of course. A taser. He has never felt anything like it, a device meant purely for inflicting pain. There was no way he could have fought back against a _taser_.

A laugh bubbles up in his chest, though it dies before it even reaches his throat. Of course there hadn’t been a real chance for him to escape, no matter what it had seemed like. He had been so close, had been able to see the open door leading outside, to safety. And in a second, with the help of a small, innocent-looking device, his hope had been ripped out of his hands. The thought is maddening, makes Connor want to thrash and sob at the overwhelming feeling of futility.

But he forces his eyes open and looks at the one thing giving him the ability to keep breathing. Jared had cleaned up everything, done his best to make it look like Connor hadn’t ever left the bed. But there is one thing he hasn’t been able to hide: the large empty spaces in the bookcases. That, Jared hasn't managed to cover up. That, at the very least, proves that Connor almost made it.

He holds on to that thought as Jared keeps stroking his hand. It was the first try, and it almost worked. All he needs to do is keep planning and preparing, biding his time and waiting for the opportunity. He’d almost made it; the empty spaces are proof of that. As long as he can keep that in mind he can make it. He just needs to plan and wait, and keep looking at the bookcases.

 

-

 

W̶̠̦̔̄h̷͖̊ḁ̸̉ť̴͚ ̸͙̅t̸͘͜î̸̛͇̳m̸̭͐e̸͍̜͐͐ ̴̙̂̚ḭ̸̅͝s̸̭̈́ ̸̬̎i̶̗̅t̷̥͝?̶̻̤̃͠

“You can’t continue like this.” Jared acts so concerned, and Connor feels that old anger flare up, right before Jared leans forward and Connor has to fight not to whimper. But Jared only holds his face, without causing any pain. “Almost every time I come in here, you’re having a nightmare, but no matter how many times I ask you to tell me about them you won't. Do you know how important sleep is, especially when you're not eating as you should be? You know how worried this is making me. Why can't you just tell me what’s bothering you so I can try and help you?”

Connor shakes his head, though he doesn't know what he’s actually protesting against, his eyes only half open, perhaps to avoid seeing Jared as much as he can. He doesn't know—it’s so hard to think past the way his stomach seizes in pain every so often. Everything is getting so messed up now, and he doesn't even try to flinch away any longer when Jared touches him. There’s simply no energy left in him.

Jared turns his head this and that way, rubbing his cheeks with his thumbs. “You're starting to look thin. Those bags under your eyes are worrying me, sweetheart, can’t you just stop being so stubborn? I understand that this is a big change for you, and I understand that you don't like being cooped up in here, but you can’t act out like you did. You must get that, don’t you? Because I'll have to punish you if you do, and it hurts me so much.”

The words are too much—the implication of them, the accusation, the sheer _audacity_ , is making Connor feel his already perilous control of himself weakening. Will he laugh, or cry, or struggle, or scream? Spit in Jared’s face? He doesn't know, because he can't think and he can hardly understand what he’s feeling beneath the veneer of pain that never quite goes away. All he knows is that he can't do it, can’t lose control.

As they do so often, Connor finds his eyes drawn to the bookcases. The empty spaces usually make him calm, reminds him that not everything is hopeless. But with Jared’s hands on his skin it isn't enough, and with desperation in his veins Connor searches for solace in the comfort of numbers. Counting the books that still remain should do it. It has to.

The bookcase closest to him: it has seven shelves, he knows this. On the top shelf there are now one, three, six, ten, fifteen, nineteen books. Nineteen books, he needs to remember that, keep it in his head so he can add to it. Second shelf has three, five, seven, ten, thirteen, sixteen books. Sixteen. Sixteen plus nineteen, that is six plus nine makes- it makes fifteen. Add to it twenty, that makes it thirty-five.

Jared’s talking again, a hand pressing into Connor’s hair.

Second shelf from the top has two books, five books, nine books, thirteen- no, fourteen books. He missed one, almost miscalculated. Fourteen, not thirteen. That would mean, fourteen plus-

Jared leans forward and presses his lips against Connor’s cheek. The shudder comes by reflex, before Connor can suppress it. It doesn't seem like Jared notices it, though, because he takes Connor’s hand next and kisses it too. Connor doesn't know if he’s relieved or not.

Thirteen plus- how many was it again? Thirty-seven? No, thirty-five. Thirteen plus thirty-five. It’s easy. You add three then one, then- or is it? Is that right?

Connor looks away from the books, stares up at the ceiling with panic pressing behind his teeth.

No, he had forgotten one book. It wasn’t thirteen, it was fourteen. Fourteen. That is one and four. Thirty-five—three and five. That makes- that is one and three become four, and four and five makes- it makes-

Only when Jared’s concerned face appears above Connor's face does he realize Jared’s shouting; only when he realizes Jared’s shouting does he realize he’s panicking, tears running down his temples as he struggles to breathe. Realizing does not mean being able to stop it, however. The way his stomach abruptly starts cramping, making Connor jerk and cry out, is not helping either.

He shakes his head, cries, tries and fails to curl in on himself, tries and fails to ignore Jared, and forgets the numbers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early chapter thanks to Helluva Hank on discord who made me aaaaaaart which I looooooove ;3;

Day 7, 1:28PM.

Markus turns his head so quickly at the sound of the door opening that he has to blink several times to get the world to stop spinning. He doesn't quite know who he was expecting—he knows who he’s hoping and wishing for—but he feels himself slouch just a little bit at the sight of Kara, pencil clutched a little harder in his fist. Behind her is Luther, each of them carrying a big bag.

“Hi, Markus,” Kara says with a soft smile and waves as she walks into the room. Luther enters after her, closing the door behind them. “Your father isn't here?”

Markus shakes his head. “I finally convinced him and Leo to go home for a day. I tried to make him go for three days, at least, but I've never managed to make the old man do anything he doesn't want to do. A day was the compromise we reached after Leo helped me. How is the case going?”

The smile slips off of Kara’s face and she looks away. Luther comes to the rescue, putting his hand on her shoulder and speaking to Markus. “I'm sorry, Markus. They still have no leads. Wish I could tell you something different.”

Markus closes his eyes and forces back the darkness creeping in his throat. Instead he takes a long, deep breath, and makes himself smile up at the couple. He hopes it looks a bit genuine, at least, but knows that both of them are too nice to say anything even if it’s not. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Of course.” Luther smiles back, though to Markus it looks more like he wants to cry. Every part of Markus understands that feeling, that want. He wonders why Luther is feeling it, though.

“We brought gifts,” Kara says and puts down her bag on the side of the bed. Markus realizes the sketchpad in his lap is still there, still open, and he quickly pulls it aside, hiding it behind his leg. At least he hopes it’s hidden. Kara doesn't seem to have noticed, judging by how she keeps talking.

“Presents from everyone at work. They're all worried about you, you know, and about…” Kara’s voices trails off and she looks down at the bag, the corners of her mouth twitching downwards. Before Luther’s hand can reach her shoulder, however, she looks up again with a smile. “They wanted us to let you know that they all think about you and hope you’ll be back as soon as you can. We opened up again yesterday, but it's strange without you there. Jerry’s drinks aren't as good as yours.”

“You aren't supposed to drink during work,” Markus says, just barely managing to find it in himself to act interested. He doesn't actually know why he bothers. Maybe it’s an attempt to feel normal, just for a short time?

Kara leans forward and presses her lips against Markus’ cheek. “You make me a bad girl.”

Luther lets out a choked, “ _Kara_ ,” while she laughs and winks at him. Markus’ smile turns softer, more genuine, as he watches them. Kara takes Luther’s hand and whispers something in his ear while he makes a face—looking much like a kicked puppy. They're adorable, always have been, as long as Markus has known them, but watching them now is making a cloud of jealousy grow in his mind. How dare they be sweet and loving when Connor is somewhere out there, being tortured in unimaginable ways? Possibly already-

Markus refuses to think about it. He will not. He can't.

“So what’s in the bags?” he asks instead, possibly with a too sharp tone, considering how both of his guests jump. Before he can feel bad about it, however, Kara smiles at him—she’s always been able to see through him, and that smile is too understanding—and goes back to unpacking the bags.

“Gifts from everyone.” She picks up several thin books, and Markus can’t hold back a snort as he sees the children’s coloring book—a Disney themed one, with Mickey Mouse on the cover. Kara spreads them out on Markus’ lap, and Markus doesn't know whether to shake his head or laugh when sees several more coloring books for children. But there are others, too, two of those ‘mindfulness’ coloring books for adults, as well as one paint by numbers book. Kara chuckles as she adds a pack of color pens to the pile. “Everyone thought you'd be amused by these, but no one thought to buy pens, so I did. I didn't know if you had any here, after all.”

“Carl brought me some of my supplies,” Markus says. He tenses at the way Kara looks knowingly at the sketchpad by his side, but she just looks up at his face with a sunny smile.

“That's great. But you probably don't have any regular old pens, so I still think it was a good idea. Now, next up we have a carefully selected gift from Alice.” Kara chuckled at his face as he was presented with a huge gummy bear, wrapped in transparent plastic. “She wondered if it was better to give you many small ones, or one big one. She eventually decided on one big bear, because, and I quote, ‘it takes so long to eat it, you get tired of it before you're done.’ There’s also a card from her.”

Markus eyes the candy with some trepidation. He’d never been much for candy—but Connor, Connor had such a sweet tooth he never managed to say no to any offered candy. Maybe Markus can save it, to give as a present for when Connor is back home, safe and sound. Yes, that sounds good.

“You can put it on the table—if there’s any space,” he adds as an afterthought. The nurses had been forced to take away most of the flowers to make place for the enormous basket of edible arrangements. Chloe had come in with it and laughed at Markus’ face, slapping away Leo’s hand after she put it down. Elijah hoped he would feel better soon, she had said as explanation. Markus is still far too intimidated by the sheer size of the thing to even consider eating anything from it.

While Kara hands the candy to Luther, Markus looks at the card from Alice—it was clearly handmade, with colorful figures drawn in a child’s immature style on the front. One of the figures must to be him, Markus thinks after seeing the bandage wrapped around one arm. But he’s smiling widely and has his other hand wrapped around a dark-haired man who’s also smiling. They're surrounded by a little girl, a brown-haired woman, and a tall black man—Alice, Kara, and Luther—who are also smiling. In the background there are lots of fireworks and balloons, behind big messy letters saying ‘GET WELL SOON.’

With a start Markus realizes his vision is hazy, and he blinks away tears, clearing his throat to get rid of the tightness. Kara’s smile is sad and, again, far too understanding, and she just accepts the card silently when he hands it over.

“So, what else do we have here?” Kara asks brightly—too brightly—and rummages around in the bag she was carrying. Markus almost snorts out loud when he sees the bottle of whiskey. “Your friend North wanted me to give this to you,” she says in a questioning tone.

Markus shakes his head. “She’s tried many times to smuggle that stuff in here. Says it would do me good to get drunk. But one of the nurses walked in on us the first time and blew up on her, and since then North is always searched every time she comes to the hospital. The few times she’s managed to get booze up here Carl has confiscated it—for his own collection.” Markus had never really had any desire to get drunk, but it did amuse him to see or hear about the lengths North went to, just to cheer him up. He doesn’t regret that they broke up, but he’s so happy they're still friends. There’s no one else he loves quite like he loves her, not in the same way.

“I'll just hide it behind the rest of the goods, then,” Kara says with a wink, and Markus nods his thanks. “That's the last of my bag. Sweetheart, come show what you have.”

“There’s more?” Markus doesn't know if he should be flattered or horrified. He’s starting to grow tired of it, of these thoughtful gifts from well meaning people who can't do anything to make Markus stop thinking about Connor.

“Just a few things,” Luther promises with his calm voice. He reaches into his bag and produces a book. “I saw this in the bookstore the other day; it's about mixology. So I thought it might be useful to you, when you have full use of both your arms again.”

Markus has to smile; the thoughtfulness is touching. “Thank you, Luther. I'm sure I will.”

“And, uh, let’s see. Jerry sent along some gifts too.” Luther has a small smile and shakes his head as he holds up a few items, dangling from thin threads. It looks like- cocktails? “Christmas ornaments,” Luther explains, having caught Markus’ look. “I think it was a margarita, a martini, a- a cosmopolitan? Uh. The last one I don't know. It’s pink, so I guess it’s some kind of sweet drink?”

Kara coos and kisses Luther’s cheek, turning his sheepish expression into a furious blush. “It’s a strawberry daiquiri, sweetie.”

“Right, that. I'm not good with drinks, you know that.”

“I know. But it’s cute how you try; it shows that you care.”

Luther clears his throat and sticks his hand into the bag with rapidly blinking eyes. “This one’s- _what the_?"

“Oops. That one was supposed to be in my bag.” Kara’s hand covers her mouth, as though she’s in shock. But Markus can see the mischief in her eyes as Luther stares at the item in his hand with a stricken expression. “Luther, sweetie, it’s okay. Just give it here, okay? I'll give it to Markus.”

Markus stares as Kara comes closer, showing him the item more clearly. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if he’s blushing, or if he’s just too startled for that.

“Traci said that, with one of your hands out of commission, you might need some help. So she got you a fleshlight.”

“Mhmm,” Markus says, very intelligently, not at all high-pitched. If he doesn't open his mouth he doesn't risk saying anything. Not that he knows what he would say—and that's the problem.

“I'll put it with the alcohol, okay? That way it’ll be mostly hidden.”

Markus nods and rubs his face. Suddenly he feels exhausted. “Are there many more- _gifts_?”

“Just two,” Luther says quickly before taking out one of the most hideous teddy bears Markus has ever seen. Looking at its face makes Markus want to shudder. All over its shiny pink body are signatures. “It’s a, uh, doodle bear, I think it’s called? Amelia bought it and had everyone at the club sign it.” At least Luther looks as charmed by the bear as Markus feels, holding it far away from himself with a doubtful face.

“Yeah, she asked Traci who said you would love it,” Kara says with such an innocent face that Markus knows she’s cackling inwardly with glee. “So you better adore it.”

“I already do,” Markus says with narrowed eyes. “Please put it with the alcohol as well, would you, Luther?”

“Of course.”

As soon as the thing is out of sight—mostly—Markus sighs and rubs his face. “And what's the last gift? Please tell me it’s nothing like these last ones.”

“Not at all!” Luther throws a loving smile Kara’s way and picks up a book that takes Markus only a second to recognize. Plato’s Republic.

“You lent Connor your copy,” Kara says as she takes the book and looks it over. “I've heard about it from both of you—though for different reasons. You have no idea how excited Connor was that you wanted to share something with him and get his opinions about it. And Jerry’s been talking about how excited you are about him finishing it so you can, what was it he said, ‘go on a date and discuss it.’ ” With a soft look Kara sits on the edge of the bed and takes Markus’ hand. “And until Connor comes back you'll have this to remember the plans you have. Because it might take time, but I feel in my heart that he will come home to us.”

“You really believe that?” Markus’ voice is so small, so scared, that he barely recognizes it himself.

Kara’s hand tightens around his. “I _know_. You might be in love with him”—Markus makes an undignified noise as his head jerks up, but Kara takes no notice—“but I’ve known him longer than you. I know how stubborn he can be, and how badly he’ll want to come back—to Elijah and Chloe, to you, to Alice and Luther and me, and to everyone else. He won't let anyone stop him. It- it might take time, especially now, but I know that he won't give up. So I won't give up on him, and neither will you.”

Markus blinks and processes her words, pausing on the specific pair that he got caught on. “Wait, you- what do you mean ‘especially now’? What's happened?”

Kara looks back at Luther in alarm, and Luther takes a step forward. “You… know about the case, don’t you? That it’s been dropped in priority?”

“ _Wait what?!_ ” Markus tenses up, his whole body like a coiled spring, praying that he had somehow misheard. “Don’t tell me- what do you mean?”

Luther and Kara share a look, making Markus grit his teeth, and Luther walks slowly up to stand right next to the bed. His face is concerned when he looks down at Markus, but Markus wants none of that now; he wants, _needs_ , to know what's going on. “We were sure that someone had told you by now. Elijah told me just shortly after he heard it from his brother.”

“Told me _what?_ What's going on with the case?” Maybe if Markus glares hard enough Luther will actually tell him. But Luther and Kara share another look, a silent conversation about what to do. As though they're actually considering not telling him. “ _Tell me!_ ”

“It's not as bad as you think.” Luther rubs the back of his head and sighs. “When you asked about the case I thought you knew… it’s been a week now, and the captain apparently decided that there are many other cases that need the resources they were using on this case.”

“So what, they're just going to give up on him?” Markus feels cold, into the very core of his chest, and his hand is trembling from how hard he’s clenching it.

“No! No, the police are still working on it, they just have… it’s not as high a priority any longer.”

Markus shakes his head and grits his teeth. “No. No way, fuck all of this.”

“Markus, what a-”

Ignoring Kara’s alarmed voice, Markus throws the blanket covering him aside. “I'm not going to just lie here twiddling my thumbs while Connor’s being tortured by some maniac, and the police does nothing!”

“Markus, you're wounded!”

Markus glares and tries to fight off Luther’s hands, which are stopping him from getting up. Sure, he can’t move his torso without a sharp ache slipping through the morphine he’s on, and his arm’s restrained by a cast to prevent any exertion on his shoulder, but his head’s clearer than it’s been since he woke up. There’s no reason for him to keep lying in bed, more useless than he’s ever been. Connor needs him!

“Markus, you can’t rush off,” Luther tries to reason, easily keeping Markus down. Markus has a feeling that he’s holding back—probably scared of making Markus’ injuries worse—and the fact that he still manages to hold Markus down is infuriating. “What- Markus, listen to me, please. You're not healed yet, you can't-”

“If I don't then who will?” Markus growls as he finally pushes Luther back, ignoring how he’s probably only stepping back because Markus is swinging his cast around.

Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, Markus breathes in the sweet feeling of victory, ignoring the sharp gasp he has to take as his whole side stings sharply in pain. He stills for a second, letting the pain ease, and doesn't notice the movement in the corner of his eye until it’s too late.

The slap comes as a surprise, with such force that his head snaps to the side, leaving half his face throbbing and radiating a heat that he thinks will become pain later.

“And what exactly do you think you will do?” Kara’s eyes narrow and she looks down at him with a look that makes Markus’ stomach clench uneasily. “So. Everyone else has given up on looking for Connor, so you have to go yourself—what do you think you'll accomplish with that? Right now, you’re _useless_.”

“Kara!”

“No, Luther. He wants to rush out and try to be some kind of hero? I want to know how he plans on rescuing Connor.” Markus is finding it harder and harder to face the cold look in her eyes the more she speaks. “Let’s look at the situation here. You’re wounded, with a bad concussion, bruised ribs, and a broken shoulder; even with strong painkillers, it’s hard for you to move. You have no connections to anyone who might know where Connor is or how to find him. You have no skills or knowledge that will help you track him down yourself. You have no money—though your father does, so I suppose you could ask him for money so you can hire a PI or something. Because a single PI would definitely be able to do something the Detroit PD and Elijah with all his connections haven’t managed. _What_ part of that list makes you think you have a better chance of finding Connor than _actual professionals_?”

Markus stares down at the floor, unable to look Kara in the eyes. His whole face is burning now, and it’s not because of the slap. He feels like he should open his mouth, defend himself, argue against what Kara’s saying, but he can’t seem to think of any words.

“You need to face reality; if you go off right now, you’ll only cause more trouble for everyone.” Markus doesn't answer, and Kara sighs. The bed dips and a soft hand lifts his head up. Kara has shed the cold face and looks almost ready to cry when he finally manages to look at her. “Even if you don't care about yourself and how you might hurt yourself so much worse than you already are right now, you have to think about everything else. You have to think about those you love. _What_ , Markus, are you willing to risk?”

She presses something into his hand, and Markus feels something get stuck in his throat as he looks down at his sketchpad. The half-finished sketch of Connor, smiling easily and carefree, looks back up at him. Markus finds he can’t look away.

“Besides,” Luther says, coming to stand next to his wife with only a shaken voice betraying how upset he is, “you need to remember that you’re not alone in this world. There are people close to you, who love and worry for you. Markus, you have to realize that you almost _died_. The stalker spared you—for some reason—but you still could’ve died. Will you really make your family and friends go through the fear and grief they felt when they didn't know if you would survive _again_?”

Markus shakes his head, keeps staring at Connor. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I- I just-"

Kara holds his face again, so gently and so carefully. “We know that Connor’s important to you. He’s important to us too; he’s one of my dear friends. If I could, don’t you think I would be out there looking for him right now? But there are people working this case, people who actually know what they're doing, far better than I do—far better than _we_ do. We have to trust in them.”

Markus takes a shaky breath and rubs his eyes. “I just- I was _there._  I was there when he took Connor, and I couldn't do _anything_. And now I'm here, stuck in a bed, uselessly waiting for someone else to find him, and I never even _told him how I feel_ , God, what if- what if he- what if he dies, and I never get to tell him?”

Kara makes a soft noise and leans forward, taking him in her arms and holding him close, and Markus stops trying to hold back his tears. He lets it all out, his anger and frustration and fear and guilt and worry, clinging to Kara’s shirt as she rubs his back. “We’ll get him back, you’ll see,” she says, her voice only a little less shattered than his. “They’ll find him and he’ll come back home to us. They’ll find him.”

Markus doesn't answer, only keeps crying, the sketchpad still lying open in his lap.  

  


-

  


H̷̩͗o̴͕͂ẁ̵̘ ̵͙̚l̸̠̅o̵͖̒n̵̩͝g̸̩͑?̷̪͝

“So, how is that? Does it all feel okay? You’re not hurting, are you?”

Connor shakes his head silently, rubbing his hands together slowly while keeping his eyes on Jared. He needs to focus, needs to concentrate, can’t let the cramps in his stomach or the aches breaking out all over his body whenever he moves distract him. His feet are still in the damn restraints; he needs them to be free too, and once they are he needs to act fast. Whatever state his body is in, no matter how badly he wants to weep at the flurry of _painhungerexhaustionnauseadizzinesspain_ , he has to push past it. He only has this one chance. He needs to make it count.

Jared smiles brightly and nods. “That’s good. I paid a lot for these, and I was assured they wouldn't hurt, but you know- you never know. And I never want you to be hurt if I can help it.”

Connor very carefully says nothing and instead watches as Jared leans down to fiddle with the cuff holding Connor’s right foot in place. The moment he feels his foot come free he draws it up, stretches it out, and moves his toes, getting back the feeling in his leg as quickly as he can. Jared walks to the other side and bends down again, and Connor barely dares to breathe. His heart is hammering in his chest as he feels his left foot be released as well.

It’s time.

Before Jared can straighten himself up, Connor draws up his leg and kicks down as hard he can. He knows already it won't be enough to seriously incapacitate Jared, he knows how weak he is, but he counts on it buying him the time he needs. And his aim is true—the heel of his foot hits Jared in the side of his head, and he falls to the floor with a pained groan.

Connor desperately shoves himself from the bed, praying that he can manage to stay on his feet. And he does, just barely—he feels that his knee is just about to give up when he shifts to put weight on it, but he pushes past that, grits his jaw, and takes another step. The momentum from pushing himself from the bed helps a bit, gives him the speed he needs to keep from falling down when his vision momentarily blacks out, and he stumbles over to the bookcases, holding onto the shelves. Behind him he hears shuffling, angry cursing, footsteps—but he knows precisely what he needs. The book is within reach, and he doesn't hesitate to grab it, turning around and holding it open, holding it like it’s a shield. And Jared does stop, anger warring with confusion on his face.

“Don’t come any closer,” Connor hisses, leaning his weight against the bookcase. It hurts, where the shelves bite into his body, but he doesn't know if his legs will carry him without any support. His body’s already hurting, anyway, bad enough to make spots of black appear in his vision, though he continues to just blink them away.

“Connor, darling, what are you doing?” Jared says, holding his hands up, sounding as though he’s trying to calm Connor down. As if Connor is acting irrationally. But he hasn't moved.

“Unlock the door and let me go,” Connor says, trying to keep the desperation from his voice, “or I'll rip the rest of your _treasure_ into pieces.”

Jared’s mouth moves silently for a second, his gaze moving from the photo album in Connor’s hands to Connor’s face. His mouth twists, unhappily. “You don’t know what you're talking about, sweetheart. Now let go of that and I'll help you back into bed, and we’ll talk.”

Connor doesn't narrow his eyes, scared that he’ll want to close them fully. Keeping his gaze locked on Jared he takes hold of one of the open pages and rips, vaguely grateful that he has enough strength to do that at least. A whimper escapes Jared as the ruined page falls to the floor.

“I _said_ , open the door and let me go.” It’s a desperate attempt, he knows. He knows that fully well, knows it’s ridiculous plan. Folly, to think that it will work. But Jared’s reaction lights a thin candle of desperate want in Connor’s chest, and he dares, just a little, to actually, genuinely, _hope._

Jared stares unmoving at the crumpled paper on the floor for one long moment, an eternal moment, then his face twists—pain, and hurt, and anger—and he steps forward, and Connor feels himself crumble. His hands shake, and the book falls from limp fingers. It doesn't matter, it doesn't have any purpose, not any longer. He failed. He’s hurt Jared, took a desperate bet and failed. All it’s done is make Jared angry, and the thought paralyzes Connor.

“No matter how important those pictures are to me, they are not _you_ ,” Jared says, and Connor inches away, taking a step to the side on legs threatening to give up at any moment. Jared follows him, face dark and eyes blazing. “And no matter what you do, no matter how much you keep _testing_ me, you’re the most important thing in my life. I will never let you go, no matter how you try to push my limits.”

Connor shakes his head and puts up his hands, trying to block Jared’s hands, which are reaching out for him. But Jared steps closer, pushes down his hands easily, and grabs him. It hurts, the force of the fingers biting into his arms, and Connor shoves at Jared’s chest, blinks back tears, bites his lips to keep his mouth shut so the desperate sobs stay _inside_. He failed. Jared is angry, because he failed, and he will never get away, Jared will never let him.

His legs give out when Jared drags Connor towards himself, but Jared only huffs and slings one of Connor’s arms around his shoulder before lifting him in a bridal carry. Connor keeps shaking his head, his eyes closed as he keeps shoving at Jared, keeps trying to get away, because he doesn't know what else to do. He knows he has no more strength left—what little reserves he’d been gathering was used up in his desperate, _idiotic_ , attempt. There’s nothing left now, no strength or desperation or hope. He’s empty.

Jared carries him back to the bed, and Connor can only hate himself more and more with every cuff that closes around his feet, around his hands. He was free for only a couple of minutes, and what did he do with that freedom? Threw it away, that's what he did, on an impossible, foolish plan. And now he’s back where he was before, trapped and hurting and sapped of strength and feeling how his stomach is starting to cramp. Try as he might he can't stop a sob from escaping his lips, but he turns his head, tries to muffle it in his shoulder. He wishes he could curl up—it’s torture lying on his back when the hunger ravages through his body. He wishes he were somewhere else, _anywhere_ else.

“You truly keep trying my patience.”

But Jared won’t leave him alone, won’t let him pretend to be somewhere else. And Connor remembers, as Jared rests his hand on Connor’s bare foot, that he made Jared angry. He threatened something Jared loves, he failed, he made Jared angry. Now he’ll face the consequences.

“You know I love you, Connor. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone else. I don't know how many times I've told you this. Does it really mean so little to you? Do my feelings mean nothing?”

Connor keeps his eyes closed, fighting to keep his face blank while the pain and fear fill him. He doesn't know if he’s succeeding.

“I’ve done so much for you, and you keep... what do I have to do? What will prove to you, finally, that I am serious about this? I will _not_ abandon you; it doesn't matter what you do or say. I love you and I won't go away. I don't understand how much longer it will take before you actually believe it.”

Connor doesn't say anything—he doesn't know if he can, even if he wants to. Jared’s hand strokes his foot, slowly, heavily. Eventually there’s a sigh, and Jared speaks again.

“Since you insist on making trouble I have to make a new rule for you. From now on you’re not allowed to leave the bed by yourself. It doesn't matter what for; either I help you or you don't leave it.”

The weight on his foot disappears, and there’s shuffling. Connor’s heart jumps into his throat as Jared’s hand presses down against his shin—it’s not a simple resting touch, or the stroking movements that make Connor want to flinch away. He’s holding onto Connor’s leg as though to keep it in place.

Jared begins by saying, “I don’t want to do this,” and Connor wants to scream at him to _not do it, then_ , “but you need to learn. You've always been so smart, so clever, Connor. Why is it that I can't see anything but pointless and stubborn antagonization from you, ever since you came here? Your behavior has been less than desirable, you know. You _have_ to step it up, you have to put in some effort too here. You can't just continue to- you have to-”

Now Connor hears the strain in Jared’s voice, feels the grip of his hand become painful. He’d already guessed the calm was a show, but now his heart is pounding in his chest. Is Jared getting close to his breaking point? Is he going to lose his temper, let loose the anger that Connor has glimpsed a few times now? The thought comes with another burst of cramps that makes Connor choke, and he doesn't know if it’s just his stomach craving food or if it’s his fear making his body react. He has no idea what Jared might do if he’s pushed far enough.

“You _will_ learn. And I will have to discipline you until you do.”

Without any warning something cold and hard is pressed against the sole of Connor’s right foot, and Connor’s eyes fly open as white-hot pain flashes through his body. He might be screaming, or he might not, he doesn't know. His body strains against the restraints keeping him still, desperate but unable to get away.

The pain only lasts for a couple seconds, then it stops, and Connor sucks in a gasping breath as his muscles twitch uncontrollably. The stomach cramps are gone now, at least, a small voice whispers in the back of Connor’s mind. Jared watches him impassively, then puts the taser against his foot again. This time, Connor knows he screams.

Over and over, Connor feels the terrible pain. His voice gives out at some point, but he keeps trying to scream when Jared moves to his left side and presses the taser against his foot there. He’s crying now, tears running along his temples into his hair. His thoughts seem to have stopped, all his attention focused on the sharp points of the taser he feels against his slowly overheating skin. There’s nothing in his head, no fear or hatred or regret. Only pain—nothing but pain, again and again and again.

At first Connor doesn't realize the pain is over. He keeps shaking, gasping and trying to fill his lungs with as much air as possible before the next wave of paralyzing pain hits him, and he doesn't notice Jared moving. Not until a hand strokes his face, wipes away the fresh tears from next to his eye. Without thinking Connor flinches away from the touch, a whimper escaping his lips as he scrunches his eyes shut.

“Oh, Connor, my love. Please, please tell me this is enough. Please tell me you've learned your lesson now?”

Panting, Connor feels his brain gradually pull itself together, the realization of _no more pain_ finally hitting him. Slowly he opens his eyes again, turning his head to look at Jared’s sad face. His hand is still out-reached, his thumb wet from Connor’s tears.

“I don’t want to keep doing this. Can you just please promise that you'll behave now and stop causing any trouble? I'll release you from the restraints immediately if you do, and I'll bring you food and something nice to drink. There’ll be no more pain. Just swear you'll be good, okay?”

It’s a strange experience, being tasered. While the device is on and held against him his whole body is ravaged by pain like Connor has never felt before, but the moment the device is turned off it all goes away. His muscles ache, but other than that there is no physical trace of the pain.

What truly remains, what truly is affected, is his mind. The pain is all too new, all too clear in his head, and Connor barely needs to think about it to feel his breath catch in his chest. One thought, a moment’s memory, and his muscles lock up, his stomach turns, tears fill his eyes. Connor might not know how the future might be, but right now he can't envision ever forgetting the feeling of _that_ pain filling him up and temporarily destroying his mind, over and over.

Even so, despite the way his body still shakes, when Connor looks up at Jared’s earnest face he knows he can only do one thing. It would be so easy, easier than nothing, to agree. There would be no more pain, he’d get to move again, he’d get food again. He just needs to give in.

With whatever willpower still remains, Connor closes his mouth and concentrates, lowers his eyes, breathes deeply through his nose. Jared leans closer, puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder, and Connor looks up again, looks up into a face bright with hope and satisfaction.

And he purses his lips, and he spits.

Jared jerks back with a disgusted noise and wipes his face. Regret makes Connor’s chest tight as he catches the absolutely _livid_ look Jared gives him. He’s shaking again, dreading what will happen now, but he knows that if he had the choice again he would do the same thing.

“ _Fine!_ Fine, if that's what you want.”

But it’s hard to remember that he chose this as the taser is pressed into the soft and sensitive skin of his stomach. Connor gasps, a half-choked ‘ _no_ ’ leaving his lips just before Jared pushes the button, and Connor’s back arches, a scream tearing out of his throat. Two seconds are an eternity, filled with nothing but pain. But the eternity ends, eventually, and the pain with it. Jared moves to another spot on his torso and actives the electricity again. Presses it against Connor’s chest, above his collarbone, under his ribs. Again, and again, and again.

Connor forgets there ever was anything but pain.


	12. Chapter 12

H҉̵ow̸̵ ̶̧l̶o̡̢͢n̸g̴͞͞ ͡͏ha̡s̴̡͝ ̶͜h҉͟e ̷҉b̧e̸eņ͜ ̷͝t͟h̷͝e͜r҉e͜҉?̷͞

Connor wakes up to being carried. The touch against his skin sends an automatic flash of a fear of pain racing through his veins, because that's all he remembers before passing out—pain that kept on coming back no matter how much he begged for it to stop. But when he flinches away, Jared just holds on to him tighter, murmuring soothing nothings that pass into one ear and out the other. Connor can only feel the ghosts of the hands that held him down while electrocuting him.

He passed out several times, he remembers. Each and every time, when he woke up again, Jared was there, ready to continue the torture. Even when he wasn't present, Connor remembers waiting, because it would only be a matter of time before Jared returned with the pain. He proved that, over and over.

So Connor bites his tongue so hard he thinks he tastes blood, closes his eyes and forces back the tears, gives up on controlling the tremors running through his body. And waits.

The sudden touch of cold, hard porcelain against his skin forces a gasp from his lips. For one dizzying moment he feels pain spread from the touch, before his terrified mind realizes he hasn’t actually been hurt. The icy touch isn't anything like the searing torture he’s been forcibly getting acquainted with, and there’s no pain that comes with it. In fact, he recognizes the feel of the porcelain, and he can guess what’ll happen next. It makes him yearn, for one dizzying moment, to be back in the bed.

Jared slowly lowers the rest of his body into the bathtub, and when Connor opens his eyes he can only feel exhausted gratitude for the fact that he’d at least been unconscious when Jared stripped him. He has no strength to struggle, but he also can't imagine just letting Jared do what he wants. Even now, even though he hadn't been aware, he wants to scream and cover himself, fight back like he hadn't been able to when Jared undressed him.

But the water—cold, at first, but quickly warming—flows around him and sweeps away the urge. He leans his head against the side of the tub and closes his eyes. Maybe he can slip down into the water again, let it cover all of him, let it take away everything. It would be so easy—he knows that he wouldn't be able to try and push himself up even if he gets desperate for air—but he also knows Jared won’t let him. He’s keeping one hand on Connor, supporting him, keeping him from simply bonelessly sliding down, while he checks the water temperature. Apparently he’s learned from Connor’s stunt last time, and will not let it happen again.

As the water level rises the scent of strawberries drifts closer, and Connor opens his eyes with a frown. He doesn't move his head, doesn't want to make it clear that he's looking around; Jared might think he wants to engage in the situation, as if he wouldn't struggle and scream and fight if he only was able to.   
  
All he can see from how his head is positioned is that the water is slightly colored pink. He can't tell what Jared’s doing, but what he can see and smell is enough to make him guess that he's used a bath bomb or something else meant to make baths more pleasurable. And, true, if it’d been in another situation, perhaps in Elijah and Chloe's spacious tub, Connor would thoroughly enjoy the heat and scents. But as it is, he only chokes on a surge distaste and revulsion rising in his chest.

Jared hums and turns off the water. "Smells good, doesn't it? I went out the other day and bought this jar of bath salts—specially made, just for you."   
  
Connor can't stop the way he shudders as Jared rubs his shoulder, and then strokes his arm. At least he doesn't go all the way to holding Connor's hand so he can caress and kiss it. It's a new thing Jared’s started doing, and it twists Connor's stomach so painfully every time.

"I know you love strawberries—well, you love sweet things in general, which is only fitting because of how sweet you are"—Jared chuckles, sweeping his thumb across the side of Connor's cheek—"but I know you tend to gorge on strawberries whenever you can. I would’ve bought real ones for you to eat, but the season’s over and I couldn't bear giving you any substandard strawberries, not when you love them so much. So I placed an order for these high-quality scented bath salts instead. It's great, isn't it? Certainly worth the money, if I say so myself. You can practically taste the strawberries."

Jared is right; each time Connor takes a breath he can smell the strawberries, so fresh and pure that it's all too easy to imagine biting into one and feeling its sweetness burst over  his tongue. It's too clear, too strong. It turns his stomach, now, this thought that he used to picture with such pleasure. He has to open his eyes again at that—though he's unaware of when he closed them—just to stave off the bitter bile rising in his throat.   
  
Jared hums and removes his hand from Connor's arm. When he brings it back, it's covered in something almost slimy—some kind of paste or salve? Connor flinches away when Jared starts rubbing his back, spreading it across his skin. Meanwhile, he just keeps talking, because it seems he never wants to stop.   
  
"I'm sorry you've been restrained for so long. It can't have been easy for you—it certainly isn't easy for me to see you hurting. But we both know why I have to do it, of course. If you would only stop struggling and accept this, everything would be so good. I love you so much, and I want to take care of you and pamper you, and do everything possible to make you happy. I know I can, and I know you want me to. You just- you just need to stop pretending, stop trying to test my love for you. Can't you at least tell me why you're angry at me? Is it because I took so long to get you?"   
  
Connor stares straight ahead at nothing, bites his tongue to stop any sounds from escaping his mouth, forces his hands to lie still under the water. It's hard, because even though he's devoid of any strength, the repeated touches across his back, his shoulders, his arms—combined with the delusional chatter—are filling him with such revulsion, it might make up for his non-existent energy. He wants to pull away, wants to strike Jared across the face, wants to push Jared’s head under the water until he can feel his desperate struggling cease.

Jared continues gently scrubbing Connor’s back as angry thoughts run through his head. “You’ll have to forgive me for that; I had to take my time because there was so much that needed to be done. I wanted to make it all good for you, give you such an amazing life you’d wonder if you were dreaming.” Jared’s hands stop moving and rest against Connor’s skin as he sighs. “This isn’t the optimal situation, I'm aware. But I’m still trying to make it as good as I can—I would greatly appreciate it if you could stop making it harder.”   
  
Instead of answering Connor takes a deep, steadying breath. The smell of strawberries is stronger now; he can detect it when he turns his head even slightly, coming from his skin. It must be what Jared’s been scrubbing his back with—there are traces of pink on his arm where Jared’s hand still rests—but that thought doesn't make Connor feel any better. All he wants is for those hands to disappear, to stop  _ touching him. _   
  
But he knows that won't happen. He knows nothing he says or does will leave even a single crack in his captor's delusion. So he just closes his eyes and leans his temple against the hard edge of the tub, letting himself— _ making _ himself—drift away. The sound and feel of the water, Jared’s continued chattering—about how he’ll let Connor sulk and just enjoy being pampered, he deserves all the pampering—as well as the exhaustion plaguing his every waking moment takes him away quickly enough.

The detestable presence next to him fades away as Connor drifts off in the water. He doesn't hear anything, doesn't smell anything, doesn't feel those awful hands touching him. He doesn't feel anything but the warm, comforting water.

That is, until the soothing water is replaced by hands pushing against his body, into his flesh. It’s not immediate—Connor is so far gone that it takes some time for him to come back to himself and his body—and by the time he opens his eyes, uneasiness has filled every part of his body. For several seconds he lies there, blinking, orienting himself.

He’s on something soft—the bed. He’s lying on his stomach, still naked. It doesn't feel like he’s too wet, so he must’ve been dried off. Jared is behind him. Touching him.   
  
Connor flinches as what must be thumbs press into the skin right above the back of his knee. His breath comes in short, painful bursts, and he swallows heavily as the thumbs move higher. His eyes fly open and a choked noise escapes him. Jared's hands continue to creep up. Fingers brush against his inner thigh, and Connor can't take it any longer.

“ _ Don’t touch me! _ ”

Desperation gives him strength, and Connor kicks out with a foot, dislodging Jared from his position behind him. Jared’s shout barely pierces the buzzing in Connor’s ears, and he mindlessly tries to get away from the man on top of him, shaking his head furiously. Eventually he manages to get on his side, and he turns his head to look at Jared—immediately he regrets the action.

Jared is sitting on his calves, now dressed in only pants and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There’s a bottle next to his leg, and his hands are oily when he holds them up to avoid Connor’s elbow. Connor barely notices any of it, his thoughts coming to a screeching halt as his eyes catch the tent in Jared’s pants. 

“N- _ no! _ No, get away from me!” Connor scrunches his eyes shut and hopes it’ll keep the tears from falling. With every word, with every time his attempts to lash out are easily blocked or avoided, with every beat of his heart, the panic grows—and with it the volume in which he shouts at Jared. “Don’t  _ touch _ me!”

“Connor,” Jared tuts, and Connor screams to drown out whatever he says next. 

“Let go!” He lashes out with his arm, his elbow, his hand, over and over, and hopes it will hit, eventually. “I don’t want you near me, go away!”

“Sweetheart, you don't really mean that,” Connor hears Jared say with a grunt as he grabs Connor’s hand. Connor sobs, and kicks wildly, almost making Jared fall off the bed. “Connor, that’s enough! Calm down-"

“No!” Connor turns his head towards Jared—his tears flow freely, but he can see relatively well—and twists his upper body, pulling at his captured hand while punching with his free hand. “Get your hands  _ off _ of me, you sick bastard!”

The punch doesn't do anything, doesn't so much as leave a mark on Jared’s face, but Jared’s face sours with anger. Without any hesitation he backhands Connor with such force that Connor can only lie reeling, his whole face throbbing, while Jared sighs. 

“Why do you continue to force me to do these things to you? I don't want to bring you any pain, don’t you get that?” 

Jared shifts both of them, laying Connor’s body down on his back while Connor blinks blearily, still trying to get his bearings. When Jared sits on his thighs—he’s still hard, Connor can still see his erection—panic fills Connor again, and he pushes against Jared’s chest, tries to shove him off, still crying hysterically. Jared only takes his hands and holds them tightly; when Connor tries to pull them back, Jared barely seems to notice his efforts. 

“I want to do the best I can for you, darling, you know that, but when you keep provoking me… this is  _ not _ the way I want us to be. I want us to be happy, not snapping at each other’s throats. Please, Connor, I'm begging you. Can't you just stop holding onto old grudges and just- embrace our new life together? Can’t you be good and do that for me?”

“Fuck you,” Connor says instead, his voice almost completely level. But his body is shaking, fury making him unable to hold back his words. The incessant tears that keep running down his temples only make him angrier. “I hate you, more than anyone else, and I want nothing more than for you to  _ die. _ ”

Jared sighs heavily, like Connor’s disappointed him. “I love your stubbornness, but sometimes I wish you weren't quite so…” He shakes his head and leans forward, releasing one of Connor’s hands so he can put the other back into the cuff next to Connor’s head. Connor’s fumbling hand—trying to rip out Jared’ eyes—is too weak to do anything except for letting Jared sigh and bat it away.

“I hate you,” Connor sobs, incapable of caring about how juvenile he sounds. “I hate you, I hate you.”

“And I love you, so, so much,” Jared says and presses his lips gently against Connor’s forehead once he’s finished fastening the cuff around Connor’s wrist. 

Then he takes Connor’s other hand, ignoring his desperate protests. He strokes Connor's cheek and brushes some strands of hair out of his face, before moving to stand next to the bed in order to bind both of Connor’s feet in the lower cuffs. Once he’s satisfied that Connor is secure he flashes him a quick smile, then leaves. Connor is left behind, naked and crying and shattered.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiya. As you guys have probably noticed this chapter is.... late. This is because I had an accident a couple weeks ago (thankfully relatively minor) which fucked up that week for me, and then after that stuff has been off for me in general so it's been extremely hard to write anything. Told everyone at the New ERA server, but my apologies for disappearing to you guys here.
> 
> What this means, though (since I'm still in a messed up state generally) is that chapters will NOT be coming out once every Sunday any longer. Hopefully, it won't take weeks between each of them, but I honestly don't know. All I know is that an actual uploading schedule is impossible as I am right now. Eh... so you all know that *finger guns* chapter 14 is like halfway done, but that's all I can tell you at this point. 
> 
> Thanks for the worried messages and all, I'll try to answer all of them in the next few days.

_ The club is lively as usual, the floor filled with bodies that Connor has to maneuver around. There are strippers dancing, by the poles and on the floor, and people are talking to each other. But there’s no music, no voices. The sounds Connor’s shoes make each time he takes a step seem to echo. _

_ His breathing seems so loud in the silence, unnaturally loud. Still, he carefully moves around the people standing by the bar and leans over to grab Markus’ arm. “Markus, what's goi-" _

_ It’s not Markus that turns around. No, it is Markus, it’s his clothes and hair and posture—Connor knows it’s him. But the  _ **_thing_ ** _ that looks at him doesn't have a  _ **_face_ ** _. _

_ They turn to look at him, all the people at the bar, as Connor stumbles backwards, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to  _ **_get away._ ** _ He can feel them looking at him, can feel their stares digging into his skin. But no matter where he looks, he finds no eyes on any of them. They're like dolls, perfectly imitating life in the way their bodies are formed and the way they move—but their creators forgot to add anything to the blank canvases that are supposed to hold their faces.  _

_ His heart hammers in his chest as he turns away, just barely avoiding a collision with yet another suit wearing patron without a face. Now that he’s aware of it, Connor can see that everyone in the club seems to be faceless. The dancers spinning around the poles, the patrons tipping their heads together as though talking with each other, the people standing around with drinks in their hands that they ever so often raise towards where mouths should be—all of them, showing only blank skin where someone had chosen not to give them a face. The silence makes sense now; how could anyone talk if they don't have a mouth to speak with? _

_ But that doesn't explain why he keeps feeling stares drill into his back as he walks. His steps, the rustling of his clothes, and his increasingly haggard breathing sounds too loud in the otherwise absolute silence. The people are still acting like bystanders in a movie scene, heads together or turned towards the various working men and women, but it seems to Connor that each time he looks around there are a couple more heads turned towards him. The faceless people by the bar—the one he’d thought was Markus—are still unmoving, turned in his direction. He feels their stares, even though they have no eyes to look with.  _

_ A flash of blue catches his attention, and Connor pushes past a couple of women. Amelia, who’s always so kind and always eager to listen. She can help him. Please, please let it be her, he thinks, begs, as he reaches out to put his hand on her shoulder.  _

_ His hand flies up to cover his mouth, to hold back the sob that almost erupts, when he’s faced with nothing but empty skin under blue hair. Behind her is yet another faceless woman, with short brown hair. Traci.  _

_ Connor backs away— _ **_runs_ ** _ away—hand tightly pressed over his mouth, silencing himself. But still he’s too loud, still he feels more and more heads twist towards him. Those non-existent eyes are suffocating him, each staring head another weight on his chest, on his back.  _

_ There’s a tall, black man next to the stairs leading up to the second floor. Faceless. Connor inches past him, tremors erupting in his body when that empty face turns to follow him. He has to bite his fist to keep the sob inside, then runs up the stairs so fast he misses every other step, almost tripping and falling down to the bottom again. Desperately, he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead—he doesn't want to know if there will be a mass of bodies in the doorway, heads angled after him.  _

_ The second floor holds the private rooms, the VIP areas, and Elijah’s office. Connor doesn’t see anyone as he rushes through the hallways, but he can't tell if it’s a relief or if it just makes everything worse. What waits for him if he opens one of the doors he’s passing by? What will he see? Will he finally hear something other than his own panicked breathing? _

_ His hand is shaking when he rips open Elijah’s door. It’s still shaking when he puts his whole weight on the door to push it closed again. He hears nothing, nothing but the sounds he himself are making. The weight crushing him, from the numerous stares from missing eyes, is still there, still digging into his back.  _

_ Slowly, barely daring to breathe, Connor turns around. _

_ Immediately he wishes he hadn't removed his hand from his mouth to push against the door, because now there isn't anything stopping the sob from escaping his lips. He crumples against the door, falling to the floor in a graceless heap, body shaking with the force of the sobs continuing to ravage his body. With half a mind, he raises both hands to his face, but they're shaking as much as the rest of him, and the tears come back as fast as he can wipe them away.  _

_ Over by Elijah’s desk the faceless thing wearing his clothes and hair stares at him, silent and unmoving. That is, until it starts moving. Leisurely, with calculated movements, moving just like Elijah would, it stands up and walks around the desk. Towards him. _

_ The sight of that faceless head, together with the outreached hands, gives Connor the strength to throw himself to the side at the last moment, just barely avoiding the touch. He scrambles to his feet, staring with wide eyes as the fake Elijah turns its head towards him. It doesn't make another attempt to move, even as he runs into the bathroom connected to Elijah’s office, even as he closes the door and locks it. The last he sees of the faceless thing is it standing still, with outstretched arms, head twisted to stare at him with eyes that doesn't exist.  _

_ The emptiness of the bathroom is only a small relief, barely a victory. The only way out is through the locked door, Connor knows, but he can’t bear even the thought of going through it. He takes a step back, further into the bathroom, and raises his hands up to his face. They're shaking, both of them, as violently as he feels he is inside. They stop shaking quite as much when he presses them against his eyes. _

_ But his flight has taken much of his energy, and Connor can only stand there and breathe for a few seconds before he feels his legs start to give out under him. He reaches out blindly, for something, for  _ **_anything_ ** _ , that will help him stay up. The cold porcelain makes him flinch, but when he opens his eyes and sees the sink he forces himself to breathe out. It becomes yet another sob, though, and soon he’s bent over the sink, crying so hard he’s finding it difficult just to stay on his feet. _

_ He’s alone. There’s no one else in the bathroom, he knows this, but even so he feels the stares. It’s like every movement he makes is watched, scrutinized,  _ **_devoured_ ** _. He can’t breathe clearly, there’s something in him that wraps around him—that strangles him—from the inside. And there’s no one who can help him, not any of his friends, not Markus, not Elijah. He’s alone. _

_ Gasping, Connor lifts his head, staring at himself with bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror.  _

_ Except.  _

_ It’s not him, in the mirror. Connor’s in his twenties—an adult—but the boy in the mirror is just a teenager. There’s no blood covering him, not like it does the boy in the mirror, drenching his face and hair. His own face is unharmed, without any wounds or cuts, but the boy’s is full of both.  _

_ Connor feels his stomach lurch sharply as the boy opens his eyes, staring back at him.  _

_ It’s not him. He knows that. Even with the other details he knows for sure now, because his eyes are brown, not steel gray.  _

_ He doesn't dare breathe as he reaches out with a shaky hand, as he watches the boy in the mirror do the same. The surface of the mirror is cold, but Connor barely notices. He’s touching his twin, for the first time in so, so many years. Their fingers connect at the point where flesh meets mirror, and Connor can’t look away from the eyes staring back at him, even as blood runs down Aidan’s face.  _

_ Aidan says something. Connor can see his lips moving, can almost hear his voice—they had the same one, after all, how could he forget it? But there’s no sound, no words. Nothing.  _

_ “What’re you saying? Aidan, please- please, I'm here. I need help. I need you, Aidan, please.” Tears run down his face, much like blood runs down Aidan’s.  _

_ But all that happens is that Aidan’s hand falls, breaking the connection they had. When Connor raises both his hands to bang on the mirror Aidan only shakes his head. He turns away, deaf to the sobbing pleas directed at him. _

_ Then he disappears, and Connor is alone. _

 

-

 

Day 9, 11:48PM.

Gavin knows he’s receiving quite a few disbelieving looks—with his five-o’clock shadow looking more like he hasn’t shaved in five days, and his clothes wrinkled because he fell asleep at his desk last night—when he steps right up to the bouncer, who immediately looks like he wants to wrinkle his nose, and Gavin swears he’ll talk to Elijah about his personnel’s reactions to people looking anything less than proper, seriously. His already annoying day is quickly turning worse.

“Gavin Reed,” he mutters, his glare daring the guy to say something. “On the list.” The  _ oh, so very special _ VIP list, according to what Elijah said. Gavin’s never had to use it before, so he doesn't know if there even really is one.

If there isn't someone is going to be in  _ deep fucking shit _ when Gavin gets his hands on him. 

“Reed, Gavin,” the bouncer reads from the notepad in his hands, eyebrows rising as he looks Gavin over. “You're free to enter… sir.”

“Don’t sound so fucking surprised,” Gavin sneers and crams his hands into his pockets, managing to take a whole step before he's stopped by an arm almost as thick as his neck. He’s not impressed. “What?”

The guy nods at the gun on Gavin’s hip, next to his badge. “Your firearm,  _ sir. _ We have a policy of leaving any and all weapons at the door. No exceptions, I'm afraid.”

That falsely polite tone reveals so much haughty distaste, and the more Gavin listens to it, the more he wants to shove this guy’s face into the dirt. So he pushes the arm away and grins widely, making sure to make his tone as flippant as he can make it when he says, “Of course there are exceptions, there always are. In this case the exceptions are the security guards, the owner, and the owner’s fucking cop of a brother. I know, because I helped make the rules. I'll make sure to tell Eli to make it clearer to you all.”

The guy blanches, and Gavin keeps grinning as he walks into the building. The moment he’s into the foyer proper he lets the expression drop with a groan, however. Fucking bouncers. Fucking elite club, with all these rich fucks as customers. Criminal or fed or politician or on the straight and narrow, doesn't matter, as long as you have money. Gavin hates it.

He hasn't actually been to the club for years, now. Whenever he and Elijah meet up, they do it elsewhere, mostly at one of their apartments—Gavin might have fallen in love with the state of the art coffee machine Elijah owns, and he’s sworn to himself he’ll buy one, too, one day. But even shitty coffee shops with shitty coffee is better than coming back here, where everything reminds Gavin of the father who abandoned him. It’s easier, when he walks through the overly hedonistic space, to feel that old resentment towards Elijah. Gavin’s worked hard to get rid of it, to ignore the surge of jealousy and hatred that rears its ugly head every time Elijah speaks about  _ their _ father, but no matter what he does, the old club brings it all crashing back. The club that  _ their _ father gave to Elijah, his  _ younger _ son, his  _ legitimate _ son, who inherited everything on top of having a childhood with a father that didn't abandon him.

_ Fuck.  _ Gavin needs to do what he came to do and then get the fuck out of this shithole. He’s only been there a few minutes and already his thoughts are making himself wince with how fucking envious they are. He doesn't want to be like that; he’s done too much work to get away from that person. A simple visit to a haunted building isn't going to break all that.

With a bracing breath, Gavin moves forward and goes straight towards the three doors in front of him. Left leads to the area with only female strippers, right leads to the area with only male strippers. Straight ahead is where the dancers are mixed—the biggest area, as well—and the stairs in that area are the ones that’s closest to Elijah’s office. 

The very pretty people dancing help take his mind off of where he is, that's for sure. Gavin even stops for a moment to appreciate a man doing what he can only call  _ art _ on one of the poles. Maybe more than a moment. More like a few minutes.  _ Damn,  _ he can definitely move, better than most people Gavin’s had the pleasure of fucking.

“Is that- Detective Reed!”

Gavin jumps, as though he’s been caught doing something he shouldn't be, which is bullshit. He’s a grown man with his own free will simply admiring another man busy working, that's all. Why should he feel embarrassed about that?

“You're- Luther, hi,” he says with a smile that he quickly abandons, because it feels way too forced. Luther’s smile, however, looks genuine, and his handshake is warm and friendly. It makes Gavin all too clearly remember how far he is from finding Connor—Luther’s  _ friend, _ whom Luther trusts Gavin to find and rescue.

“It’s good to see you,” Luther says, and he sounds like he actually means it. Gavin hates it, almost as much as he hates himself, but definitely not as much as he hates the hopeful note in Luther’s next words. “Have you-”

“No.” He has to be abrupt, has to cut it off before actual hope can be built. Even so, it hurts to see Luther’s smile die. “Sorry. I'm, uh, I'm here for a different thing. To see Elijah.”

Luther nods. “He’s upstairs, in his office. Do you know the way?”

Gavin nods as well, rubbing his neck, and tries not to feel too awkward. “Yeah, I do. Helped Elijah with renovating this place, back in the day.”

“Oh. Good, good. I'll let you be on your way, then.” Luther turns away, but then stops himself and looks back at Gavin. “He’s in a meeting, though. Just so you know. I don't know when it’s going to be over.”

Gavin shrugs and waves a hand dismissively. “No matter, I'll just wait if I have to. Thanks.”

All he allows himself is one more glance at that  _ artistic _ man, then Gavin moves on. Who cares if Elijah’s in a meeting? He’ll just barge in without knocking, that way there won't be a meeting any longer. Easy.

No one else bothers him as he walks to the stairs, then up them, so he takes his time, walks in a leisurely speed. When he’s halfway up his phone pings, and he reads the message. One of his informants, providing info about the case he’s currently on—he knows he has nothing on Connor’s case, and definitely isn't expecting any news, but he still feels disappointment wash over him.

He’s so absorbed in his message that he doesn't notice the person heading down the first step of the stairs until he almost knocks heads with her. Only her hissed ‘hey!’ makes him jerk to a stop before the collision, eyes flying up from his phone. She has one of her hands pulled back, a light sneer on her face, and Gavin is struck by the certainty that she was going to either push or punch him if he hadn't stopped.

“Shit. Sorry,” he says, pressing himself to the side. The space is just barely wide enough for two people to pass, but something tells Gavin that this woman likes her space.

For a second Gavin thinks she might still punch him, but then she simply adjusts her suit and gives him a cool look. “Accidents happen when you stop paying attention.”

“Yep. That's true. You're so right,” Gavin answers intelligently. Damn, what a voice she has—dark and husky, each honeyed word pronounced crisply. It goes straight to his brain, turning all of it to mush, then brings all his blood with it down to his crotch. If she just keeps talking to him like that he’ll let her do anything she wants to him.

Like many other women Gavin’s met, she frowns at him like she can hear his thoughts. Thankfully, instead of decking him like he probably deserves, she only rolls her eyes—dark and intense, outlined by sharp black eyeliner that only makes them stand out more, and they’re damn  _ gorgeous _ —and starts walking again. Gavin only lets himself stare after her for a few steps, then he quickly moves up the last few steps. He actually has something to do, instead of being entranced by beautiful people. 

It’s been way too long since he got laid, clearly.

Not that he has any intention of trying to find some willing body to fuck, absolutely not. The thought of doing that, while someone his brother cares about—someone  _ he _ cares about—is out there having god knows what done to him, is nauseating to say the least. Infuriating. Making him pissed off, at himself, at the sick bastard who kidnapped Connor, at the whole fucking world for being so fucked up.

He growls and pushes his fingers into his hair, barely stopping himself from tearing at the strands. It’s fucked up, all of it, every fucking-

A crash, loud enough to be heard out in the hallway where Gavin is, startles him and makes him automatically reach for his gun. But the music is still so loud, it must be nearby. And the only door that's anywhere close—that's only a few steps away, in fact—is-

Elijah’s office.

With his heart in his throat Gavin pulls up his gun and dashes over to the door, ripping it open. He knows what sort of people Elijah has dealings with, and he knew, he always  _ knew _ something would go wrong. One day, one day something would happen, and Elijah would be taken away from him, the last of the family Gavin had thought he didn't have. He always knew it would happen—he just didn't think it would happen in such a fucked up situation like this. And it is, it  _ is _ too fucked up, it can't happen like this, Gavin won’t  _ let it. _

“Freeze, police!” he yells, though he can't hear his own voice through the beating in his ears, with panic making his hands clammy. Then he blinks, registers the scene, and blinks again.

What meets his eyes isn't what he expected, to say the least. Elijah is in the room, yes, but that’s basically the only thing that matches the fearful image that’d planted itself in Gavin’s brain. He’s alone, for one, and unharmed, staring at Gavin with wide eyes. by his feet lie the broken remains of a vase. Pretty large, by the size of the shards, but still just a vase. 

Gavin blinks again and clears his throat. “Chloe called me,” he says. “Said you haven't left the club in two days.”

“I've been busy,” Elijah replies. Then, without missing a beat, he shoots back, “Would you perhaps put away your firearm? I see no villain needing to be arrested here.”

Slowly Gavin lowers his gun, but he doesn't put it back in the holster just yet. “That was Eliana Machado Pinto I met back there; she came out of a meeting with you, didn't she? I'd call her a villain. Considering, you know, how she’s one of the most well funded members of the damn cartel.”

At the mention of that name, the shock leaves Elijah’s face completely and he straightens, narrowing his eyes at Gavin. “Whom I conduct business with is none of your business.”

“Bullshit. Why don't you try that again, huh, but without forgetting all the shit you  _ know _ I know about you and this damn place, and all the shit I keep pretending I don't know about.”

For a time the two simply look at each other, then Elijah looks away with a turn of his lips that resembles a pout too much. If the situation wasn't as tense as it is, Gavin would make fun of him for it. Instead, he simply waits to see what Elijah will say, whether he will actually answer the question or not.

“I have a wide net of connections. A few days ago, I sent out feelers, a few questions that I hoped someone would be able to answer. Eliana was here to tell me that on her side of things, there has been nothing but failure."

Gavin releases one hand from his gun to cover his face as he laughs harshly, shaking his head. “Are you fucking kidding me… even now you can't speak plainly. Were you hoping I wouldn't figure out what the hell you're saying? That your trust in your own fucking brother is so low that you're resorting to using criminals to find Connor?”

Elijah doesn't say anything. Gavin isn't surprised, honestly. Disappointed, hurt, pissed off, but not surprised.

Without looking at his brother, Gavin holsters his gun and rolls his shoulders. “Should've known. You never could let others do something without shoving your big nose in. Never really trusted anyone else. And Connor's your friend, I know. He’s important to you.” He looks up and gives Elijah a hard look. “But I'm your fucking  _ brother _ ; how can you not trust me? I care about that kid too!”

The sneer on Elijah's face takes Gavin aback with its sheer vitriol. “Really? Are you absolutely certain about that? Considering all the insults you've flung his way over the years, all the times you've belittled him and laughed at him, do you really think I trust that you're actually gonna give a crap about finding him as fast as you can?”

“I- that- you know I was just ribbing him. I was only fucking around.”

“Is that what you call it? He's asked me several times if you hated him.” 

Elijah's accusing look makes the guilt and regret grow, and suddenly Gavin feels sick. “I don't- I never hated him. I just wanted to mess with him. I like that fucker. He always gives as good as he gets. I like that.”

“You  _ ’like’ _ it? What the hell is wrong with you, enjoying it when you make someone act like an asshole just to protect themself? How do you think Connor feels about always having to guard himself and think of quips to make you shut up? How do you think I feel when my friend is demeaned by  _ my own fucking brother _ every time they meet? And I'm supposed to think you actually like him?”

As the words tumble out, the volume of Elijah's voice rises, along with Gavin's anger.

“If you had a problem with the way I acted, why didn’t you just come right out and tell me, like normal fucking humans do? Or, what, did you think I’d get pissed off or something? Is that the sort of person you think I am? And, by the way,” he says before Elijah can so much as open his mouth, “if you think little Concon would be afraid to tell me exactly what he thinks of how I behave, if he really hated it, then you don't know him nearly as well as you think you do.”

“Get out.” Elijah's face is unreadable, and the sudden change from furious shouting to a cool monotone makes it take a second longer than it should for Gavin to actually register what he’s saying. “Get out of my office, now.”

Gavin will gladly do so, and he scoffs as he turns around. “You can do whatever the fuck you want. Hire more criminals, since you feel so much more secure with them; see if I give a fuck. You can deal with Chloe when she gets pissed off enough to come and drag you outta here herself.”

Elijah starts to say something, but Gavin is already walking through the door—the sound of it slamming shut drowns out whatever he was going to say.

 

-

 

Ẉ̷̎ȟ̸͈å̷̝ṭ̵̈́ ̸͍̂ã̸͉r̷̛̻e̴̼̔ ̷̢̕d̷̯̏a̶̲̍y̷̢̓s̷̱̈?̷̛̲ ̷̠͝W̸̳̆ḧ̸͕́a̵̰͋t̵̘̑ ̶̣͛i̶͈͌s̴̥̕ ̴̺̀t̷̙̐ï̷̢m̵͕̑e̶̫̔?̶̥͆

The first thing Connor registers when he wakes is the cloying smell of strawberries. It’s all around him, clinging to his skin and to the sheets. He must have fallen asleep while Jared was giving him a bath, the third one that Connor remembers. But he doesn't remember falling asleep, only knows that one moment he’s fighting the urge to weep as Jared scrubs his back, and the next he’s back in bed. It only takes a moment to realize that he's dressed in silk pajamas, that he's dry, that he's surrounded by the smell of the bathing salts, and that he's not restrained—the next moment the pain spreads through his stomach, and he feels his body curl up as a whimper escapes his throat.

He's not quiet, and he's not alone. The sound of his whimper draws the attention of Jared, who rushes over from where he was standing by the bookshelves. If there was even a moment's respite from the pain Connor would’ve screamed or flinched away as Jared descended on him with worried face and careful hands. But there isn't, the pain is paralyzing him, and he can only let Jared touch his face, so disgustingly gently.

“It's okay, it's okay, I got you. The pain will be over soon, darling, just bear with it. Breathe with me, now. In, and then out. In. Out.”

The fact that Jared is so close doesn't exactly help Connor breathe easier, but the disgust and fury is something that lets him think about anything other than the pain. And he realizes, once he's managed to tear himself away from that, that he can actually think about everything else. Like how he's not restrained, even though he's back in the bed. He can see the right side handcuff next to where he's lying, so he knows Jared hasn't removed the restraints from the bed—but he hasn't put Connor back in them.

It makes him hope, just for a moment, that he has a chance again, that as soon as the pain stops he can make a run for it—but then the moment passes and he realizes that there's only one reason why Jared might let him be unrestrained. Jared's counting on Connor being too weak to make an escape attempt, with starvation taking too much out of him.

And as Connor feels himself shake while the pain slowly passes, he realizes that it's true. He can barely shift his body from the fetal position he’s ended up in, and the effort of attempting to move makes his breathing grow heavy. He tries to look away from Jared, but the man leans down in front of his face. He's impossible to ignore.

“You look so tired,” Jared says, and Connor could cry at how worried he sounds. But he won't, he won't let himself. Jared keeps touching his face, and all Connor can focus on is the burning desire to flinch away—and how meaningless it is if he can't even move. “I wish you could just- do you know the consequences of long-time starvation? Do you really have to be so stubborn about this? It's dangerous for your health to keep this up.”

Jared shakes his head and draws back, sighing heavily. “I want what's best for us, you know that. Even if you insist on making it a trial, which- you worry me, Connor, you really do. If you could see yourself you'd understand. Oh, no, don't get me wrong; you're still so beautiful, absolutely mesmerizing. But you're getting bags under your eyes, you’ve lost weight, and you look so exhausted it hurts me. If only you'd let me I'd help you with all of it. I wish you could just  _ let me. _ ”

It's too much effort to say anything, and, besides, Connor is truly starting to realize nothing he says matters—Jared will only take his words and turn them into something that fits what  _ he _ thinks is going on. It's useless to try and convince him of anything. So, Connor just closes his eyes and turns his face away. That, at least, he can do.

Rather than see Jared's disappointed face, Connor hears the deep sigh. Then, a hand cards through his hair, fingers gentle as they comb out tangles. “What can I do for you? All I want is the best for you, for you to be happy. I would sacrifice anything for that... Don't you believe me? I swear, I'm not angry anymore—I was never angry, even. I was hurt. But now I'm not, I promise. Look, just- look.”

Prompted by the hand guiding his face, and by the voice that is growing increasingly bothersome, Connor opens his eyes again. Jared is pointing with his free hand at the bookcases, and Connor doesn't understand why. There's nothing new about them; they were in the room before Connor was brought there, and the only change was when Connor himself destroyed enough books to leave several large empty spaces on the shelves. That's the only thing, nothing else has changed.

Nothing.

But.

That's.

That's not.

“I made a list of all the books that were- that had to be replaced, and I placed an order the very same day. They came this morning. Modern technology truly is something to cherish, isn't it?”

Jared smiles, but Connor doesn't see him. All he sees is the bookcases. All he sees is where the empty spaces have been filled—he can't even remember where the empty spaces were. No matter how desperately he looks there isn’t a single sign of which books are new. Each shelf is tightly packed with books again, just like it was before.

“You fell asleep so quickly after your bath—and I know you sleep heavily—that I seized the opportunity.”

As though Connor hadn't done anything at all.

“It was my surprise to you. Now you don't have to feel bad anymore!”

As if Connor's attempt to escape is as easily forgotten as just buying some books.

“We had a minor problem, but now we can move past that.”

As if everything Connor does is futile.

“You know I’ll always forgive anything you do. I love you, after all.”

It hurts—to breathe, to move his hand, to claw at his throat, to feel, to think—and what's the point in thinking or feeling? What's the point of anything? He can't do anything, because nothing he does or says will cause even a ripple in his captor's fantasy.

He fought, as hard as he could, to get free. He destroyed the last pieces of his lost family, destroyed pieces of himself, destroyed  _ Aidan. _ He felt such pain, pain that still makes him shake and sweat.

And none of it mattered.

“Connor? Connor, darling, what's the matter? Are you in pain? Is it your stomach acting up again?”

It hurts to look at the books, but Connor can't look away, but it's somehow hard to focus? Everything is blurry, and it's so difficult to keep his eyes open. He gasps, his hand moving up to cover his mouth, but sobs escape through his fingers and his body starts shaking, and Connor realizes why his vision is so strange. Tears make it hard to see clearly, after all.

“It's okay, darling, just breathe, okay? I'm here with you, it's all going to be okay.”

It doesn't matter what he does. Nothing matters. He'll never escape. He let his guard down and now he's trapped, and Jared will never let him go,  _ Jared told him that, _ and he will never get out of this hell.

“What? What was that?”

Connor shakes his head and draws a wet sounding breath, keeping his eyes on the bookcases—as though it’s of his own will, as though he can look away when he wants—as he draws another, and another, fighting to get enough air so that he can talk. But the crying is making it hard, and he would be annoyed by it—should be annoyed by it—if he could only  _ feel _ anything but the overwhelming sense of futility.

“-me, please,” he manages to murmur.

“You're doing good,” Jared says encouragingly and leans down, and Connor doesn't flinch, doesn't even feel disgust, doesn't feel  _ anything. _ “You're so strong, so amazing. One more try, darling. What are you saying?”

The shelves are full, lines of books taking up spaces that should be empty. Jared is by his side, touching him, talking to him, acting as though they're in love with each other. He will never get away.

“Please. Kill me.”

Jared rears back as if he’s been punched, opening his mouth before closing it again. Connor grabs his hand, the hand that's resting on his cheek, and looks up, away from the books. He feels nothing, no pain or exhaustion or weakness, nothing but the darkness inside him, as he moves Jared's hand down to his throat. He's still struggling to breathe, still crying, still shaking.

“Just do it, please. I'm begging you. Kill me.”

“You-” Jared stares at him with wide eyes, then tears his hand out of Connor's grip and stands up. “Do you have any idea what you're saying? Connor, you have to-”

“It hurts and I'm so tired.” Connor doesn't feel anything, so he looks straight into Jared's eyes, and he doesn't even want to puke. He's already crying, anyway. It's impossible to think, but the words come to him all too easily anyway. “You said you love me. Then you’ll do this for me. Help me. Make the pain go away.  _ Kill me. _ ”

“No!” Jared grits his teeth and glares down at Connor darkly. “You  _ don't know _ what you're talking about. This is just your pain and exhaustion making you say things you don't really mean. This little phase of yours will pass once you've slept.”

Connor shakes his head—all of him is shaking, and maybe there is pain too, but if there is he can't feel it now—and reaches out a hand. “ _ Please. _ ”

“No! You- how can you even  _ ask _ me something like that? You know I love you so dearly; how can you demand that I hurt you, on purpose? I can't believe you, Connor. After everything, you still-”

With a growl, Jared stops himself and stares down at Connor silently. If he could feel anything, Connor would be scared, already feeling the sharp, cold points of the taser on his skin. But he can't. So he isn't.

The only thing he can think of, the only thing he's sure of, is that he can't stand it here. He can’t stand living here. He needs to get out, somehow, in some way. Anything is better than this. His arm is too heavy to hold up, so he simply keeps staring at the blurry form of Jared above him as it falls down onto the bed. “Please…”

Jared sneers, throwing his hands up in the air. “I  _ refuse _ to even consider this nonsense. I can't believe you would be so cruel, I really can't. So I'll choose to think that this all is simply a lapse in judgment, and when I return tomorrow you'll be back to normal again.”

Connor shakes his head, desperation growing as Jared walks around the bed towards the steel door. The exit. The source of freedom that’s been cut off from Connor. His crying is getting worse, and whenever he tries to speak only sobs come out.

“Until then I want you to think about your words, and how hurtful they can be,” Jared says, standing in the doorway, blocking the view of the  _ outside _ , of  _ freedom.  _ With a quick flick of his wrist, he turns off the bright lights in the ceiling, leaving the ceiling lamps in the hallway behind him as the only source of light.

Then he's gone, and the door is closed, and Connor hears the final snap of the lock. The restraints are still on the bed, but his limbs are free from them, and his body moves by itself to curl up. The sense of futility hanging over his head is disappearing, replaced by an increasing sense of despair. And Connor, left alone in the darkness both physically and mentally, cries.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter demands special warnings for mutilation. If you want to be spoiled about what exactly happens so you can prepare look at the ending notes.

T̸̞͋̄ȟ̸̗͔e̶̦̬̓r̴̡͑e̵͍͇̊͒ ̸͚̓a̵̧̕͝r̴̰̅͌ě̷̛̦ ̷̞̾̉n̵̰̦̓̌o̸̘͙͒͐ ̸̖͂d̶͇͊̓a̶͕͉͐ÿ̸͈͝ṣ̶͌̚͟

He's lost even the idea of what time feels like. It must’ve been hours since Jared left him in darkness, but it feels like it might as well have been days. Or maybe it's only been a few minutes, and Connor has simply been fooled by the pain wrecking his body. 

But, no, it must’ve been hours—or longer. The stomach pain has come and gone several times, each time leaving Connor gasping and shaking and crying harder than before, but it doesn't come too often. He knows that. So that's one way—the only way—he can measure time. Otherwise, all he can feel is eternity stretching out in the darkness that’s enveloping him.

The thought of being stuck in the darkness forever makes him whimper and press his shaking hands against his chest, and  _ that _ causes another spike of pain, starting deep inside his stomach and crawling up his back into his chest, into his throat, until he thinks he'll choke on the  _ painhungerpain _ . He wishes that he  _ would _ choke, as he lies gasping and panting and waiting for it to just  _ end _ —one way or another. But he doesn't, and eventually the pain ebbs away, and he finds himself still breathing, though every breath rasps harshly in his chest.

Like every other time, he finds himself disappointed.

Connor closes his eyes. It makes no difference whether he has them open or closed—the darkness is just as thick either way. He can feel it sneaking into his mouth as he pants, can feel it slinking down his throat, making it harder for him to breathe, with tendrils of darkness becoming physical and depriving him of air he isn't sure he wants. With his eyes closed he can't see anything—imagined or otherwise.

But by trying to shut it all out, he only invites it in further, closer, nearer, like a dear friend. It's not simply shapeless darkness curling around him now, it's cold hands on his face, touching his lips, stroking his hair, wrapping around his neck. Tighter.  _ Tighter _ .

It's hands, but it's also not. It's a rope, thin but stronger than steel, pulling taut around his throat. It's Jared, his repulsive words murmured into Connor's ears, his words of love and blame, his threats and promises of a  _ future _ . A future they will have together, a future that he will never let Connor leave. Destiny. Fate. Eternity.

Those words caress Connor's cheek, and he sobs helplessly, tossing his head frantically with what little strength he has left. The noose tightens just a little bit more. He can almost hear Jared's soft chuckles under the loud, harsh sounds of his own haggard breathing.

Nothing matters anymore. He can't escape—he can barely move, he can barely  _ think _ —and what little damage he caused the room was swept aside. Ignored. Treated like it’d never happened. Nothing he does matters, nothing will change Jared's mind, nothing will stop the future drawing nearer and nearer with every passing hour.

Connor presses his hand against his mouth and bites down on his knuckles. The pain is sweet, hard, distracting, and  _ there _ . Jared isn't there. Not now.

But he will be back, because nothing Connor does matters.

He still needs to do something. He  _ has _ to do something. There  _ must _ be something he can do, something that will matter, something that won't be swept aside or ignored or forgotten. There must be something Jared can't replace.

Aidan would be able to think of something. Aidan was always just a bit faster, just a bit stronger, just a bit smarter. He wouldn't have ended up in such a situation, like Connor did, but if he had, he would've thought of something by now, something that Jared wouldn't be able to ignore. Something that mattered too much.

Aidan.

Connor freezes when remembers the one book he’d gotten his hands on but couldn't destroy, not fully. It should still be on the bookshelf. The photo album. Connor's trapped past, stolen to be cherished by a madman.

There shouldn't be much left, not of things that will hurt to rip apart. He remembers Aidan, smiling in the last picture of the two of them together. Remembers how he couldn't make himself tear it apart. It's still there, with all those photos of Connor after the accident. It's still there—and the thought makes the breath catch in Connor's throat. Can he do it? Can he destroy the last photo of his brother he has, the last chance he had to see his brother's face again, where he's healthy and whole and smiling?

He needs to do something that matters. Destroying what's left of Jared’s precious photo album would matter, Connor knows it. Jared wouldn't be able to just pretend that never happened.

All he needs to do is to get to the bookcase, find the book again, and tear it apart. The darkness makes it impossible to see anything, but he can feel his way there, and if he touches it, he’d know; he couldn’t miss it. He doubts he'll ever forget the feel of that soft velvet cover. If he can only get to it, he won't need to see—and if he can't see then he won't have to look at Aidan smiling up at him as he tears him apart.

He just needs to get to the bookcases.

Connor swallows hard and tries pushing himself up into a sitting position. It doesn't  _ work _ . His hands are digging into the mattress, his upper body straining to just barely hover above the sheets, but his arms quickly scream in protest and he falls back down. There's  _ no strength _ left, no hidden reserves to call on. Nothing.

The darkness washes over Connor again, and he feels the noose tightening. Futility sits heavy in his chest, and Connor can only lie there with shaking arms, sobs threatening to burst past his closed lips. But the despair, the fear, the memory of Jared's smile, is too strong. He can't, he can't give in,  _ he can't _ .

It doesn't matter if he can walk or not. If he can't walk, he’ll crawl. If he can't crawl, he’ll push himself forward. It doesn't matter if it takes forever, as long as he makes it.

Without letting himself think about what he's doing, Connor grits his teeth and twists his body, rolling onto his side, then turns again. And falls.

There’s not a single part of him that's prepared for the cold, hard floor—neither his body nor his mind—and Connor cries out as he lands harshly on his shoulder. Pain flashes through his arm, streaking to his back and hip and leg, up to where his head hit the floor. The fall has knocked all the air out of his lungs, and for a long, seemingly endless moment, Connor lies there shaking, gasping and crying.

But he doesn’t lie there forever, no matter how desperately he wants to. He can't allow himself to have forever, because he  _ needs _ to move. He  _ needs _ to get to the bookcase. He  _ needs _ to do  _ something _ .

So, swallowing down his tears, Connor starts pushing himself forward, ignoring the ache in his body screaming at him with every movement. There's only one thing on his mind, only one goal which his full attention is focused on. He has to stop and gasp and rest after every push forward, but he's making his way to the bookcase—that's all that matters. He has to make this matter.

In his mind, he sees the bookcase, and that particular velvet spine that makes his hand itch. He has to be close to it, he has to be. He can't see, can’t hear, can't feel anything that tells him how far he’s gone, but he has to be close. He just.

Needs.

A little.

_ More _ .

But as his naked foot slips on the floor and he crashes down, hitting his chin and making his teeth click sharply together, a different pain starts. Like nails being hammered into his guts, it starts in his stomach, a debilitating pain that soon spreads. Connor chokes on a gasp, scrunching his eyes tightly shut, and tries to bite his lips shut. Not now, not  _ now _ , not when he's close.

The pain doesn't abate, no matter how much he wishes for it, and all Connor can do is curl up and wait. He tries, he tries so hard, to keep his focus, to remember what he's doing, why he's lying on the floor gasping as his body shakes. He tries, but he fails. There's nothing now, nothing but the darkness, nothing but the pain, everlasting and all-consuming, filling his head until it's all he can think of. His eyes are wide open, tears streaking across his nose and down his temple, but he can't even muster enough strength to sob.

He doesn't hear the footsteps from the other side of the door. He doesn't hear the key being inserted into the lock, or the turn and click of it. He doesn't hear the door opening.

He doesn't hear anything, but when the light comes on and blinds him, the noose around his neck pulls tight, strangling him, and he knows he’s too late.

“Con- oh. Oh, Connor.”

Shaking his head in denial doesn't change anything, and Connor feels warm tears drip from his nose as he reaches his arms out—despite the pain in his abdomen, despite the way his body protests, despite the way he wants to curl up and disappear—and tries to crawl away. But he hears someone stepping closer, fast and determined. By now Connor's started to recognize the sound of Jared's footsteps.

Gentle hands turn him around, then slide under his back and thighs to lift him up. Connor keeps shaking his head, and looks away—because not looking away would mean having to see Jared, and he can't do that, he  _ can't _ —only to have his eyes catch on the very bookcase he was making his way towards. And, upon seeing it, what resolve he had gathered crumbles, and he closes his eyes as sobs begin wracking his body.

With the light on now, he can see that he hadn't made it even halfway.

Jared puts Connor down on the bed and sighs as he puts his hands on his hips. The anger from  _ before _ is gone, but the sight of his face still makes Connor shiver. “You're too weak to move around, darling, you know that. And where were you even going?”

He seems to be waiting for an answer, so Connor opens his trembling lips and whispers weakly, “Bathroom.”

Of course, he can't tell the truth. He doesn't know what Jared will do to him for this, but whatever it is will surely be much worse if he finds out what Connor was actually intending. The memory of Jared's expression when he saw the shredded pictures still haunts Connor in his less guarded moments.

“If you needed to use the bathroom you should’ve just called on me, Connor. You know you're not allowed to leave the bed. That's the  _ one _ and only rule we have, and you're already breaking it? Why do you have to make me keep disciplining you? I don't  _ want _ to do it, but you just keep forcing me!”

Connor’s heart starts racing as Jared grows increasingly upset, and he can only stare with wide eyes as Jared shakes his head.

“I’d hoped the taser would be enough of a deterrent, but you're proving me wrong. In order to make you respect the rules, respect  _ me _ , I'll have to use a different means of persuasion, I see.” 

Jared leans down and quickly puts Connor back in the cuffs still attached to the bed. Connor's struggling is minimal, barely noticeable, and doesn't give Jared even a moment's pause. Once again, shaking with fear and pain and frustration, Connor curses himself for being so weak.

When he's done, Jared looks Connor over and sighs heavily, reaching down to rub Connor's cheek. “I’m repeating myself, I know, but you really do worry me, sweetheart. I just  _ cannot _ understand why you're being so stubborn. It pains me so badly to see you like this, to have to deny you food day in and day out. I want to pamper you and shower you with love every single second of every single day—why can't you see that? This? This isn't what I want, not anything  _ close _ to it. Please, Connor,  _ love _ , can't you just promise to obey me? If you just say that you'll be good and stop breaking rules, or trying to antagonize me, then I won't have to hurt you anymore. Please. It's just such a small thing, such a small promise. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we can move on with our life together.”

Connor stares at Jared for a long time, his mind absolutely blank. It's mind-boggling, that Jared keeps talking about ‘their life together,’ as though it's something he and Connor had planned together, as though Connor  _ wants _ it. He can't think, it's too much, he can't  _ deal _ with it—so Connor simply closes his eyes and stays silent.

He hears Jared sigh, and it feels like he can breathe a little easier when the hand on his face disappears. But it's just a momentary relief. Jared's footsteps lead away from the bed, and he hears a door opening. But he doesn't hear it close, and Connor opens his eyes and sees that the bathroom door is open. Jared’s rummaging around inside, and the fact that Connor can't see him makes the noose tighten a little more around his neck.

When he comes back into view, Jared's carrying a small bag, and it's like Connor’s heart stops as he stares at that nondescript little thing. It looks so ordinary, so simple. But there's something in it that’s going to be used to hurt him, something worse than the taser that made him pass out, and Connor is  _ scared _ .

Jared puts the bag on the nightstand and opens it, taking out a cloth wrap which he then lays on the bed next to Connor's foot before rolling it open. The tools inside catch Connor's full attention—pincers, pliers, a scalpel, scissors, and a few other tools Connor doesn't even know the name or function of—and he can't make himself look away, even as Jared goes back to looking through the bag. He hears Jared rummage around, but it means nothing to him. The scalpel seems to shine as its polished surface reflects the light of the lamp in the ceiling.

“I don't want to do this,” Jared mutters, somewhere near Connor's shoulder. “I’d hoped I wouldn't have to, that you would choose to be good for me. I’d  _ hoped _ . It's such a disappointment to be proven wrong like this.”

Connor only manages to look up when Jared takes the tools and moves them, putting them between his feet, instead, while he goes to stand by Connor’s right foot. A shiver crawls up Connor's leg, up through his whole body, as Jared rests a hand on his shin. Jared doesn't look at him as he selects one of the tools—Connor's ears ring with his own whimper as he sees the pliers in Jared’s hand.

“This isn't what I had in mind when I brought you here.” Jared stares down at the pliers in his hand with a faint frown. He almost looks lost. Connor’s stomach pulses with pain, but he can't even take his eyes off Jared, much less move. “We were supposed to be sharing our new life together already, that's what I had planned. Instead, you’re forcing me to hurt you, over and over again, even though I  _ hate _ doing it. The taser was just a general precaution, but when I saw how awful you behave… I feared that it wouldn't be enough. I’d hoped, by God, I’d hoped I wouldn't have to use these. But you leave me with no choice.”

With a heavy sigh, Jared puts the pliers back down on top of the wrap, then he takes the towel that Connor hadn't noticed and spreads it under Connor's foot. Connor's chest hurts; it feels like his heart's beating so hard it's going to burst through his ribcage. He’s getting an idea of what Jared will do to him—and he knows for sure that it will involve blood.

If he could control his panicked breathing, he would be begging for mercy.

“I love you so much, Connor. Remember that, and that I’m doing this because you’re giving me no other choice.”

Connor can barely hear his words—his whole world has shrunk down to the pliers that are back in Jared's hand, and the way his other hand is pressing Connor's foot down against the towel, trying to keep it still. Almost as if it has a will of its own, Connor's foot twitches, straining against Jared's grip. His toes curl, like they're trying to hide, and Jared grunts in annoyance.

“Please, keep as still as you can. This will only be more painful otherwise.”

The strangled, inhuman noises coming from his throat are laughter, Connor realizes with half a mind. Hysterical, wheezing, and more than a little manic. He can't do anything to stop it—but then, to be fair, he doesn't actually try. He just keeps staring at the pliers as Jared holds them thoughtfully over his foot.

The breath Jared’s taking is to calm himself down, Connor thinks as his mouth twists into what could possibly once have been called a smile. He can't stop laughing, but if he keeps his mouth closed it'll stay inside, and he'll have some control. Any bit of control he can get is good. Anything he can focus on to keep his attention off of Jared—leaning down over him, squeezing his foot, wedging the ends of the pliers around his curled pinky toe—is good, and fighting to keep his body under check is more than enough work; in fact, he barely even thinks about Jared, doesn't see him or what he does, he just looks up at the ceiling as he focuses on keeping his mouth shut and on the cramping in his stomach and-

Sharp, white-hot pain shoots through Connor's body, and he arches his back as a scream tears its way out of his wide open mouth. There's nothing but  _ pain _ —in his foot, in his stomach, in his chest, in his head, he doesn't know what to focus on, it’s all pain but there’s so many different types and he can't focus, he tries but he fails, it's all pain and it's all so overwhelming and there's no space in his head for thoughts how can he even focus if he can't think if he can't think to focus how can he-

But he hears Jared curse, lost somewhere in the sound of his own screaming. There might be the feeling of a hand against his foot, or maybe, he imagines it, because anything is better than the pain. He can't move, can't breathe, can't turn his head and see what Jared is doing to him. His voice gives out, but the silence is somehow worse, because it seems he can hear his own blood flowing through his veins and out of him, leaving him empty. He can’t help but try to scream again, but the pain in his throat stops him, and he cries because of yet another pain joining the rest.

There's pain, nothing but pain, and Connor shakes, his tears falling freely. Then—an emptiness, a hollow, almost ghost-like sensation. It's surrounded by the pain, still, but even that's turning numb. Jared moves into his field of sight and reaches out a hand, only to startle and freeze, staring at his hand before pulling it back. Connor could see that it was stained red, deep red, blood red.

Jared says something—or, Connor thinks he says something—but there's ringing in his ears, and pain pulses through him, and he keeps seeing the redred _ red _ . He keeps staring blankly at the ceiling, because Connor can't move his head, can't do anything but shake and cry and sob helplessly, but he also can't make himself close his eyes. Every sensation gets stronger when he does, more intense. Nausea rolls in his stomach and pain runs through him from top to bottom—he doesn't need it to be more intense.

In the corner of his eye he sees Jared move, disappearing as he leans down, and there's more pain—sharper, more poignant, breaking through the surface above the rest of the pain. Connor hears himself whimper, hears himself croak a weak ‘no,’ which goes ignored. The new spike of pain eases quickly enough, though, his nerves too burned out to register it, and only the steady, pulsing waves of pain remain.

Jared comes up to Connor's shoulder, his face fully in view even though Connor doesn't move, doesn't try to look, doesn't  _ see _ . He's wearing an expression of pain, and Connor looks away, doesn't see, won't see, won't think about it,  _ refuses _ to think. Hysterical laughter bubbles in his chest again, but he can ignore it, because everything he feels is pain, there's nothing but pain, just pain.

It all comes to a screeching halt, leaving him hollow and echoing with the sheer  _ absence _ of everything, when Jared bends down and kisses his lips gently.

“We're almost done,” he says, and Connor can hear him, and he wishes so badly he couldn't. “Just need to close the wound, and then it's all over. You're doing so well, darling. It's almost over.”

Again, Jared disappears out of view, but Connor hears his footsteps as he walks around the bed. Over. Connor wants it to be over, wants everything to be over, wants it all to  _ end _ , wants to simply close his eyes and drift away and never have to come back to  _ this _ again. But that's not what Jared means, he's sure of that. No matter how badly he yearns for it.

He prepares himself for more pain—as well as one can prepare themself for pain that will make them scream and cry—but this time, it's not just pain that shoots through his foot, up his body. It's  _ burning _ , Jared’s  _ burning  _ him, and Connor’s head spins as he shakes in the restraints, keening wails pouring nonstop from his lips. He thinks he can smell the scent of burning flesh—heavy in his mouth, putrid, nauseating, but almost sweet in a way, mixing with the metallic smell of blood—but he can't focus on it, can't think about anything but agony; his mind's filled with pain again, from everywhere, from all parts of his body. Over—he needs it to be over, but there's pain and burning and Jared's burning him and Connor feels like he'll throw up but he can't move and he can't think and Jared is doing something, making the pain peak for one excruciating moment, and then-

Darkness, blessed darkness, reaches out to pull Connor down. Happily, Connor lets it. And, then, it's all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jared uses pliers to cut off Connor's pinky toe, though he needs to do it twice to cut it off completely. Then he cauterizes the wound, and Connor faints from the pain.


End file.
